The Starlit Sky
by Makalaure
Summary: Elrond's account of his boyhood with the Fëanorians.
1. Chapter 1

A/n: This story was posted on ffn before, but I deleted the stuff on my old account. After a bit of thought, I decided I could post some of my stuff back here.

This story was originally published on 23/02/2012 and completed on 27/06/2012.

Warnings for mature themes, profanity, violence, and inaccurate timelines.

Thanks to Gwedhiel for the beta.

Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognise.

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><p>'Great was the sorrow of Eärendil and Elwing for [...] the captivity of their sons, and they feared that they would be slain; but it was not so. For Maglor took pity upon Elros and Elrond, and he cherished them, and love grew between them, as little might be thought; but Maglor's heart was sick and weary with the burden of the dreadful oath.' – 'Of the Voyage of Eärendil and the War of Wrath', <em>The Silmarillion<em>.

Chapter One

We had been riding for many days across the plains, when there appeared from a far distance a sprawling, colourless stone structure that clamped the sides of a lonely hill like an old, insistent denizen, shaped like a deformed tortoise with anthills stuck on its back. On closer inspection it was larger than I had thought possible, and loomed above us like a wrathful god. Clenching my swollen, stiff fingers, I bowed my head and grimaced, pushing back the lump that rose in my throat. We arrived at the fortress of Amon Ereb in the early hours of a chilly morning, when the mist was stretching its fingers across the land and it was somewhat difficult to see.

Maedhros and his company made their way up the jagged, shallow-sided hill as if they had done it a thousand times before – which, I learned later, they had. Despite this the trip was cumbersome and uncomfortable, and I gripped the horse's mane to keep myself from falling off. Eventually we reached the fortress' entrance, which was flanked by an age-worn gatehouse with glassless windows, and at the sound of a great horn, a black portcullis groaned and slid up, and the tall wooden gates swung slowly open. The riders cantered in silence into a wide outer courtyard, where they halted. Maedhros and Maglor, who were carrying us, rode on, through a barbican into another, smaller courtyard.

I was seated in front of Maedhros on his snorting, black stallion, cold to my bones and weary from the long journey, and should have been more frightened than I was. I had been raised within white walls decorated with stately mosaics, where music was played all the day and the halls were sweet with incense; where men wore gold-trimmed jerkins over silk tunics and women strung many-hued gems about their slender necks. Amon Ereb could not have been more different from my home, and I could scarcely help but gape at the incredible – or perhaps, to me, disturbing – structure.

It was built of grey stone, partially eroded and blunted from the elements, from the rectangular, ivy-straggled keep to the cobble-stoned ground where bits of thick, olive-green moss huddled comfortably. The walls stretched above us, the highest seeming to claw hatefully at the sky. From the tips of the two tallest spires, swallowtail flags bearing the emblem of Fëanor flapped recklessly with the wind, now and again made indistinct by the clouds. It seemed a place more fit for interrogation than the residence of elves.

Maedhros dismounted his horse with a flourish and helped me down. I tried unsuccessfully to not shudder at both the puckered stump at the end of his right arm and the thought that he forced my mother to jump from a crag. Why was he touching me? I did not want him to touch me. From the corner of my eye I saw Maglor put my brother on the ground. Not for the first time I wished I was old enough – and strong enough – to strike him down, but my body was small and frail, and, I thought grimly, it would be folly to openly attack a grown Elf who was a master of the sword.

My brother and I were led up a short flight of stairs and through the main entrance – opposite and some distance from the barbican – by the Fëanorians. The temperature abruptly dropped, for the ceiling was impractically high, and though two closely set, burning hearths gaped like fiery eyes at each of the four walls, they did little, it seemed, to warm the dimly lit Great Hall. Unlike the architecture in Valinor I'd heard about, there were no gleaming crystal stairs or ceilings tiled with mother-of-pearl. Yet finely crafted tapestries hung on the walls, many depicting great battles or pale war-horses before copses of trees. Only one showed Tulkas hoisting a small hill on his shoulders as deer and smaller animals sprinted ahead of him. It was not welcoming, though if the situation had been different, I may not have found it repellent, either.

As we walked I noticed that some people, who sat at trestle tables with cups of ale, threw strange, tentative looks at us. But none made any remarks, and none stared longer than a moment. We stopped, and Maedhros turned to his brother and spoke in their mother-tongue: a haunting, lovely language that sounded vile to my ears; I could understand but a few words back then.

Maedhros finished talking and left us, his dark mantle stirring behind him, and stood by the Elves at the tables – who stiffened at his approach – and began to mutter to them. Maglor looked after him for a few moments, as if he pondered something, and then turned to us. "I will take you to your room," he said with a small nod. He led us to the east wing, up a narrow, winding staircase whose outer walls were pocked with arrow slits. On one of the landings he stopped in front of an age-worn door. He opened it, and told us to go inside. We advanced warily, and I wondered if he would push us in and lock us there forever.

He didn't, and stood patiently behind us as we stared at our chamber. From the small door it yawned widely, lit by a latticed window with a curved crack in one of the panes, so that a checkered strip of light swept the floor in the middle, towards the door; the rest of the room was dimmed and partially cast into shadows. It had a double-bed covered in soft brown furs, and heavy, though old, carpets on the floor. There were two desks, on which rested lit candelabras, and a small shelf of leather-bound books next to them. A closet was placed in a corner by the bed. When we tentatively neared the window we saw, far away, river Gelion winding gently like a metallic ribbon across the broad, undulating plains, and beyond that, the steep, treacherous slopes of the Ered Luin. We realised we were at a dizzying height above the ground, and a fall would have resulted in one's body being crushed on narrow stairs that led somewhere beneath the fortress. There seemed a clear, cruel message: we could leave any time we wanted.

"You may rest today," said Maglor when we looked back at him. "You are always welcome to eat with us in the Great Hall, but I guess that for now you would rather have your meals alone. I will tell an attendant to bring you your food in half an hour or so." Crossing his arms, he continued, "You are free to wander whither you will, but I would not recommend going anywhere near the battlements or up the towers. This fortress is large, and it is easy to get lost. I know I did on several occasions when I first came here." He gave a dry smile. In the watery morning light, he looked eerie with his wind-tangled hair and his large, bright eyes. "I trust you will take my advice. Maedhros and I have decided certain rules for you, but we will save you the boredom until tomorrow. Do you wish to know anything else?"

I grimaced and took a shaky breath. "Yes. Will you ever release us?" I dared to look up at him. He seemed slightly bemused by my question, and, after a moment, said quietly, "For now, you are to live here. You are scarcely six summers old, and we cannot leave you out in the wild." When he said that, his mouth twisted unpleasantly, as if he had tasted something bitter. "But when you come of age, you will be allowed to leave, if you wish."

"Why do you not send us back to Lord Círdan? Why keep us here?" I said. He did not reply, but, after shifting his gaze from my brother to me, exited the room, shutting the door behind him. It closed with a surprisingly soft _click_.

As soon as he was out of earshot I exploded angrily, "He has no answer. He treats us like we are his guests, but we are only his thralls."

Elros said nothing. He plumped down on the carpet, fingered a loose string, and wept. Great fat tears slid down his red cheeks as he fumbled with the thread, trying it into a knot, then into a flower, the way our maidservants used to do to amuse us during restless nights. This he tore off and crushed in his plump hands. Presently he lay down and squeezed his eyes shut, quivering like an autumn leaf.

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><p>Exactly half an hour later, someone knocked at the door. I was sitting on a chair, brooding, and jumped when I heard the sharp noise. It did not wake Elros, who had fallen asleep on the bed. I did not reply to the knock, but the person came in anyway: a Noldorin attendant holding a platter with food and a water-basin. He set it on one of the tables. Despite my distaste for anything the Fëanorians offered me, I looked at it. There was white bread, baked chicken stuffed with fragrant herbs, a wedge of soft cheese, and two honeyed apples. Simple, but quite favourable after the meagre, bland diet we had grown accustomed to during the journey here.<p>

The attendant removed two cups of dark, golden liquid from the tray and set them on the table. "This is just warm, honeyed water with lemon juice," he said with a sympathetic grin. "Very useful in cold weather."

When I did not return the smile, he bowed and left. The smell of the food was enticing, but I was determined to be stubborn. I folded my arms, went to the bed, and climbed in. It was not uncomfortable; the furs were warm and coarse and smelled faintly of lavender.

Not a moment later Elros woke, yawned sleepily, and sniffed. "Is that for us?" he asked with sudden eagerness. He slid off the bed and headed towards the food. I'd always been amazed at how quickly he could change his humour. At times it led me to think he was either an idiot of the highest class or a person who could survive in any situation. "Oh! After months of salted fish and hard bread!"

"Do not eat it!" I said sharply. Elros' hand stilled, hovering over the bread. "Why?" he asked.

"Because it is _their_ food," I said through gritted teeth.

Elros knitted his brows. "We have eaten their food before. We would have starved otherwise, and we will starve now if we do not eat. I care not for what you say; _I_ am hungry." He broke a piece of the bread and shoved it between his lips, not bothering to clean his hands first. "I do not like this place any more than you do, Elrond," he said with his mouth full, "but I am not stupid enough to refuse good food. I'm tired of stuff that tastes like parchment."

"It may be poisoned," I replied. It sounded absurd to my own ears.

Elros shook his head and swallowed. "I hardly think they would bring us all the way here, only to poison us. If they wanted us dead they'd have gutted us at Sirion." He took a sip of the honeyed water and wiped his mouth. I left him to eat his fill, stubbornly lying in bed with the furs pulled up till my mouth. My stomach protested indignantly, but I pressed my lips together and tried to think of something else.

I don't know how long I lay in bed. The attendant came back to remove the half-finished food, and Elros wandered around the room, inspecting nooks and corners and trailing his fingers over the geometric designs on the carpets. He ambled over to the bookshelf and took out some volumes. I heard one crash to the floor as he cursed under his breath, and I wondered how he had the strength to be curious such a time.

A few of the candles guttered out. Eventually, weariness came over me and I slipped into strange, dark dreams filled with bright blades and helms and rivers bubbling red with guiltless blood. Or was the blood the river? Distantly, I heard myself groan.

Then someone was shaking my shoulder, and I cried out when I saw Maglor bending over me with a grim face, though I felt ashamed not a moment later, and flushed.

"Well," he said, his voice oddly coarse and scratchy, as if his throat was filled with phlegm, "why did you not eat?" It seemed a silly, frivolous question, and I felt defiance set in my face.

"I was not hungry."

"Your stomach was rumbling even in your sleep. Do not lie." He stood up to his full height, his eyes narrowing. "I said before that there were rules you both had to follow, and though I also said you would hear them tomorrow, one of them is this: you must finish what is on your plate. It is only right."

I felt anger rise in my chest, and I breathed heavily. How _dare_ this shameless excuse of an elf preach to me about virtue! "_Why_?" I hissed.

Maglor jerked his head, and the heat in his gaze flared so that my anger turned to fright. "Why?" he repeated incredulously. "Because food is scarce in these lands, and the only reason you get so much is because I say so. Many of the soldiers make do with two meals a day, sometimes less. And because," he added, dropping his tone, "you are living under our roof now, and you will follow the rules we set for you."

"Or else what?" I asked, wanting to sound bold, but hearing my voice quaver.

Maglor bent down again, gripping my shoulder with a large, callused hand. It _hurt_. "Do not try my patience, little Half-elf," he growled fiercely, corrugating his brow. The effect was that he looked like a monster. I shrank against the pillow, distraught, and half-sobbed, "Don't touch me, don't touch me, don't _touch_ me,_ please_." I covered my face and tore at my hair, whimpering.

The flame in his eyes diminished, and he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I did not mean to frighten you," he muttered quietly, as if to himself. He looked at Elros, who was hanging back near the window, flummoxed and trembling. "Make sure he eats his meals," Maglor instructed him curtly. He walked to the door and turned to face us. "Maedhros and I will meet you here at the tenth hour tomorrow morning. Get some sleep." Then a strange, sheepish expression crossed his face, and he cleared his throat and said somewhat gruffly, "In case you want to wash, the baths are downstairs. I can show them to you now."

Maglor had washed and changed, but my brother and I were still filthy from the long journey from Sirion to the fortress. I was repulsed by my own smell, and I am sure Elros was, too. My brother looked like he was going to comply, but then caught my eye and seemed to think the better of it.

"No?" asked Maglor. "All right. There are fresh clothes in the closet; I am not sure if they will fit you properly. If they do not, inform me or my brother, and we will get someone to tailor them." He left, and relief flooded through me. I glanced at Elros, and thought I saw an unusual expression on his face: regret? Or was it loneliness?

I found I did not want to know, and rolled over and stuck my thumb in my mouth. My gaze darted nervously across the cold stone walls, and found no place to rest. Shivering, I closed my eyes and rocked myself, and pretended that I was folded in my mother's arms in a rocking chair on a cold day in Sirion. In my mind she gazed pensively through a broad window outside where the old, silver willows dipped into the river that I had known since teeth had not protruded from my gums**.**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

I woke early the next day to a pale, butter-tinged morning. Having slept fitfully, I momentarily thought I was in Sirion and feeling unusually disgruntled, and arbitrarily remembered that I was always told by Mother to wake with a cheerful disposition. But then I shook my head and cleared it, and there was no space for doubt: we were in Amon Ereb.

My head reeled from lack of food. I raised myself up slowly and sat at the edge of the bed. My brother was still in slumber; his quiet snores bore testimony to that.

I hopped to the floor, felt the worn, somewhat rough carpet beneath my feet, and padded over to the cabinet. Opening it, I found two stacks of crisp, clean clothes. At the bottom there were two pairs each of leather sandals, soft, cream bedroom slippers, and warm boots. I reached out and carelessly took whatever my hand grasped first: a white, navy-trimmed top and matching trousers, and the sandals. I put them on. The fabric was of soft wool that would serve well against the winds of the hill. The garments fit surprisingly well – that would save me the trouble of informing Maglor if they did not.

There was a good while left until the tenth hour, and I spent most of my time walking about the room, much like Elros had done the day before, trailing my fingers across the cold walls, feeling the little bumps and cracks. After a while grew bored and sat on the window sill, and gazed into the morning light. The mist had mostly cleared, and I could make out the splotchy, green plains ahead, stretching towards the blurred horizon. A small, shadowed pine wood surrounded the east wing of the fort, and I wondered if there were any animals aside from crows that dwelt there; it looked neither sinister nor particularly benevolent.

Suppressing a shudder and looking down, I saw soldiers stiffly patrolling the lower walls and ground, like ants across tree-branches. One of them turned and playfully slapped a comrade on the back, nearly knocking him from the battlements, and then hastily pulled him back, and I arched an eyebrow in response, wondering at their childishness.

I must have sat there for quite a while, because it appeared that only a little later an attendant came in with our breakfast: apples again, and milk and fried bread with butter. "You should eat it, little master," he said with surprising gravity. "Lord Maglor was not happy yesterday; you're mighty lucky to get a large room and food like this. This fortress was not built for comfort." He bowed and left before I could reply.

Feeling slightly guilty, I woke my brother and we ate together, sitting on the bed. When we were finished we talked in low voices about our new home, our old life, and our mother. Mostly we mulled over the sheer size of this mighty fortress, and how the silence seemed to lie watchfully in the walls when we were alone.

Sure enough, at the tenth hour there was a rap at the door, and Maglor and Maedhros entered. Maedhros had rid himself of the tattered, dirty clothes he had worn on the journey, and now wore a black velvet tunic, buttoned to the collar, and tightly laced leather shoes. A golden clip adorned his bright hair, and his face held an unreadable expression. Maglor had donned a linen shirt with a sleeveless, dark blue over-tunic that flapped at his knees, held at the waist with a belt, and his thick plait hung to his midriff. It was almost impossible to tell they were brothers.

"You are both up and dressed. Good," said Maedhros. "Maglor and I have decided a schedule for you. It will keep changing every few years, but you will have to follow it for as long as you live here."

Elros and I exchanged uneasy glances.

"First," said Maedhros, ignoring our looks, "you will have lessons for four days in the week from the tenth hour in the morning until the third hour in the afternoon. You will be taught early history, poetry, music and numerals; neither of us wants to compromise your education.

"Second, you will have chores; nothing heavy, just cleaning your own windows, making your bed and sometimes, if you misbehave, scrubbing floors. Maglor will also teach you both how to cook, but that will not start until a while later. Do not worry," he added at our alarmed expressions, "you will not be confined to the kitchens. We have cooks enough.

"Third – and this is important – you must not go anywhere on the battlements, up the towers, or into the dungeons. Not because we are hiding anything from you, but because you will get lost. I would advise you to stick to your chamber, the Great Hall and the courtyard for now. And I do not want to see either of you wandering outside after dark.

"Fourth, you shall not make any mischief or cause any trouble that would offend or hurt anyone in any way. Perhaps Maglor," he threw his brother a slightly admonishing look, "will allow it, but the rest of us, and least of all I, will not. In case you are wondering, there is no need to address either of us as lord – you may use our names. Usually I would not permit this, but your case is an exception."

He paused and cocked his head to one side to glance at our reactions. "Do you have any questions? No? Good. Your lessons will start the day after." He turned to his brother inquiringly, as if asking if he had forgotten something. It seemed odd that one with such a commanding presence would seek advice from a lesser scion.

Maglor shook his head and said to us, "You are free to wander about the fortress today. I can show you around, if you would like – "

"No," Maedhros cut him off. "You must show them. I do not want them getting lost and creating havoc for us all."

Maglor slowly let a breath out through his nose, as if striving to keep his temper in check. "Very well. I will first take them both to the baths, and then show them around properly."

"Ah, yes," said Maedhros suddenly. "I forgot. As to your military education – "

"We will discuss that another day," Maglor interrupted, with an imperious tone that few if any could have retorted to.

Maedhros grunted his assent and folded his arms, looking a little chagrined. This was the most I had heard him speak until now, and I was already unwilling to cross him, despite his current expression. I felt my chest relax when he left.

Maglor turned to us and gave us a smile that surprised us with its warmth – not that I felt any affection for him – and spoke, "And now I may familiarise you with Amon Ereb!" He threw the door wide open. "After you, little masters." His voice was slightly mocking, but not unfriendly, and we complied quietly. A strange look flickered across Maglor's face before disappearing again.

We trundled behind him down the staircase, tripping a little and feeling the walls on our sides for balance. Maglor, in comparison, was quite fast, and Elros and I had trouble keeping up with him. When I accidentally tripped over my own foot and nearly collided with Maglor he stopped abruptly and raised his brows. "I am sorry," he said, "I did not realise I was walking so quickly...Elros?" he added uncertainly.

"Elrond," I corrected him sharply. I had always had a strong feeling that Maglor was not the sort to hand out severe punishment, and now that Maedhros had confirmed this fact, I was willing to take every opportunity to try to hurt him. I saw nothing wrong with being vindictive.

"Elrond," he nodded. It was patronising the way he ignored my tone. "I apologise." He walked on, this time more slowly; for some reason, his placidity irked me.

We continued down, passed through the Great Hall and a series of confusing corridors, and finally reached the baths. They were almost inadequate for a lord's house. The edges of the square pools were rough and grey, and the walls of the chambers damp and, in places, green with mould. Soaps and towels were kept in straw baskets on racks by the entrance. Occasionally laughter and exclamations burst from around the chamber, and a dubious, murky smell hung insistently in the air.

But the water was hot and clean, and that was all that was really needed, I suppose. Maglor dabbed at his upper lip with the back of his hand and said, "You can wash yourselves here. I will be waiting outside."

We stared at him in alarm. In Sirion we had baths in porcelain tubs in private chambers, sometimes with Mother or perhaps a nanny supervising our behavior. Never in our lives had we been made to disrobe in front of fully grown Elves who were complete strangers to us, much less bathe before them.

Maglor puckered his brow and asked what was wrong. I scowled, indignant, but Elros said, "Can we bathe somewhere private? We have never..." He cast his gaze to his feet. Maglor raised an eyebrow, but led us to a smaller pool at the edge of the hall, obscured by a wooden screen. He told us to wait, and then went away. Soon he returned with towels and soaps.

"I am giving you half an hour," he said. "Can you manage on your own?" We nodded mutely and he left.

After undressing, I slipped into the bath, and sighed at the warmth, feeling the muscles in my back and my legs uncoil. Contrary to the atmosphere, the water had a rather pleasant, fresh scent, and I submerged myself to the neck, initially doing nothing because this was the first bath I'd had in a few fortnights. Despite this, I had no desire to either laugh or smile, and quickly pushed my head beneath the water, shutting my eyes tightly.

When I came up again, Elros was cleaning his toes, his brows drawn in concentration. His cheeks and his arms were bright pink, and his hair curled and stuck to his forehead like fat, sated leeches. He caught my eye, looking more anxious than happy, akin to a shaved and wet pup, and promptly went back to scrubbing his feet with renewed vigour.

Regaining my senses, I washed myself quickly, grimacing as I realised how dirty I was. I scrubbed my face and my hair fiercely with sticky soap, and made sure I had not a speck of filth left on my body; I'd always hated feeling grubby. It was a quirk of mine, and often made my brother roll his eyes at me pityingly. Recently I had been too disgruntled to care about my little obsession as much as I usually did.

I went on, and was satisfied only when I sniffed my arm and, with muted triumph, found it smelt of deep sandalwood rather than other, unsavoury elements.

We dried ourselves and slipped on our clothes again, feeling refreshed. When Maglor came back, his brow dotted with perspiration, he did not say anything but gave a half-deriding, half-satisfied smirk, indicating that we were at last presentable, and I felt my chest swell with indignation.

He led us into the outer courtyard by the gatehouse. "I will show you the kennels; it would not be wise to try to chase the hounds, but the keepers are friendly enough."

"What makes you think we want to be friends with them?" I asked. Elros paled, and Maglor paused to catch my eye. He was not smiling.

For a moment he looked as if he was going to admonish me, but he sighed and shook his head. "Follow me, both of you," he said, "unless you wish to not know this place at all. You cannot escape, so you may as well do as I say." He advanced.

Elros threw me a bitter look; whether it was directed at me or Maglor, I did not know. We soon came to the kennels, constructed sturdily of stone and wood; I had not noticed them when we had ridden in the day before. There were several hounds about, dozing, playing, or brawling over bones. A black-haired Elf in a shabby tunic was kneeling and holding a dog down, dabbing at what looked like a small wound on its foreleg with medicine.

When they saw Maglor, some of the hounds leapt up and charged towards him with alarming speed. They jumped at him, trying to lick his hands and his face, barking and yipping. Elros and I shrank away in fear; three of them were sniffing at us curiously. Maglor petted them briefly, and then told them to move away. They did so obediently, albeit a little reluctantly. He called the Elf with the medicine and he came to us, coarsely wiping his hands on his trousers.

Maglor introduced us to each other. "Agorael, these are Elrond and Elros: princes of Sirion, the sons of Lady Elwing and Lord Eärendil. They are part of our house now, and I want them to be treated well. Tell the rest of the keepers and the pages that I speak so. The boys are permitted to play with the gentler dogs, but do not let them get near the more aggressive ones."

"But of course, milord," said the Elf with a nod. He had a somewhat high, fruity voice that should have belonged to a jester. He turned to us. "The staghounds are very affectionate; you don't have to worry about them biting you." He smiled warmly at us, though it seemed a little strained. Perhaps he was embarrassed at the thought of being acquainted with us. Elros gave a small smile in return.

"They can come here whenever they wish," informed Maglor to Agorael, "but not during their lessons or at night. I will inform you of their schedule later this evening."

"Very good, milord!"

Maglor next showed us the stables – which were near the kennels and which I had also missed – and Elros made no effort to hide his love for horses. He stroked their manes and their necks, and even asked Maglor if he could ride one. Maglor chuckled. "Of course, but not now. I will have to inform the head of the grooms, and he is not present right now." Elros looked disappointed, but nodded.

The same day we were introduced to some of the guards, and to my surprise a few of them were women. Maglor actually laughed at our expressions. "The _nissi_ fight valiantly," he explained, "and neither Maedhros nor I can say no if they express a wish to take an active part in battle. This is war, after all." His expression suddenly changed, becoming dark. He was quieter after that, and led us back to our chamber. It was evening by then, and a hot meal was waiting on our table.

"Stay in your room," Maglor ordered. "Take a look at the books if you wish; some of them are quite interesting." He left.

Elros and I paused, and then went over to the meal. After we had eaten, we changed into nightclothes – a luxury we could not afford for many months – rinsed our mouths with hot salt water, put out the candles, and crawled into bed. As I lay on my back I saw the mottled Moonlight, obscured here and there by the flimsy clouds, shift on the now pale, blue-tinted walls. From far beneath the window there came the very faint echoes of marching feet and of tinkling metal. A few moments later, somewhere a door was opened and then shut; but, despite my age, I was not afraid of grey shadows or of sounds in the dark. The deeds of witches and of ghouls, after all, were never worse than the deeds of ordinary folk.

I stayed awake for a long time. Elros had fallen asleep and had kicked off his side of the furs, and I sighed in slight envy. My brother, I had long ago decided, was the infuriatingly relaxed sort who could fall asleep standing up. After a few minutes of tossing and turning and scratching my pillow with a nail (an old habit that I still struggle to control), I gave up on sleep and rolled out of the covers.

Slipping my feet into my sandals, I went to the door and opened it quietly. Leaving it ajar, I crept downstairs. It was cold, much colder than the morning, and I rubbed my arms and sputtered as I felt my way around.

We had taken a hallway to enter the Great Hall, but next to it there was another, smaller corridor. It was lit, and so I told myself it was not forbidden, and took that route. I had no particular notion of where I was going, but I cared not if I 'created havoc' for the whole fortress. While I was walking I came across a wooden door with iron bands round it. It was unlocked, and when I pushed it open I saw yet another hallway, dimmer than the last.

I do not know how long I kept walking; the place was a labyrinth. Each long, tunnel-like corridor mimicked the last with exquisite accuracy, and induced in me an irrational fear of being trapped in a dream. I no longer knew where I was and cursed my idiocy, slapping my fist against the wall in frustration. Beads of sweat had formed on my brow, and I wiped them with the back of my hand.

Seeing no other option, I padded on, trying to find my way back and failing. Sirion had been simply constructed, and I could likely have walked through it with my eyes closed and emerged unscathed, but Amon Ereb was a place whose architect was probably drunk when he drew the designs. I scoffed at the thought.

It must have been past sunrise when I finally plumped down from exhaustion and curled up against a wall, not caring if it was uncomfortable; many days of sleeping on the ground had hardened my body and adjusted it to coarser conditions. If I was lost, I determined, I could probably get out once I was rested. Sleep flitted across my eyes and dragged down my lids with the weight of rocks.

I could not have been unconscious for very long, for the next thing I knew someone was shaking my shoulder roughly. I opened my eyes, still stupid with drowsiness, and, forgetting my pride, shrieked in an undignified manner when I saw Maedhros' grim, partially shadowed visage close to mine, looking like one of the strange-faced gargoyles that squatted on the upper walls of the fort.

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><p>Nissi - elvish women<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Fear had robbed me of speech, and I pressed my back against the wall, hands trembling. Maedhros considered me, his expression dour, his jaw tight, but he said nothing. He looked frustrated rather than angry, though I could have been wrong. At length he grasped my wrist and pulled me up – his hand was ungentle – and then began to tug me along, walking so fast I could only keep up by half-running. His footfall was heavier than usual, almost as a human's, and in the narrow, arched hallway it made a _clop clop_ sound like a horse's hooves or high-heeled footwear, though he was wearing age-softened, ankle-length boots.

After a quarter of an hour we came to a sunlit, serpentine staircase, and from there turned into the one that led to my chamber. Reaching my door Maedhros pushed it open, and we found Maglor sitting by my anxious brother on the bed. Maglor looked up sharply and breathed, "Elrond," as if he had been concerned. Maedhros let go of my wrist as if it was contaminated, though I was too afraid to move even a finger.

After a tense silence Maedhros turned to his brother, pursed his lips, and let out a long, deliberate breath. He gestured to the entrance with his thumb and said, "Now," which, I learned over the years, was his way of saying he wanted to talk, and the other person ought to listen if they did not wish to face his wrath.

Maglor closed his eyes, sighed through his nose, and came over, arms stiff by his sides, though he tried to hide his discomfort. I heard the door shut behind me, and then blinked twice and filled my lungs with air. Elros, after giving me an incredulous stare, pressed his palm to his brow and shook his head, looking like a second edition of our mother.

He did not speak to me the rest of the day, his lower lip thrust out in a perpetual, sullen frown.

That evening I took a book from the shelf and pretended to read at my table. Elros was sitting on the windowsill, gazing into the gloom, his chin in his hand and his brow puckered. The window was left slightly ajar, and I sneezed explosively, twice, at a sudden rush of cold air. I would have asked Elros to shut the window, but was unwilling to accidentally annoy him, and kept quiet.

Instead, sniffling, I went over to the bedside table to get a handkerchief, and nearly stumbled while avoiding a nail that protruded from the hard floor; it must have become stuck there by accident when this room was built. I would report that later, I decided. After blowing my nose noisily I went back to my desk, and found that Elros was looking at me with hard eyes. He cocked his head and said, "Are you trying to make things harder for us?" His face was calm, but his smoke-coloured eyes had a glint in them.

I knew what he meant, but my pride was hurt, and I was feeling stubborn. "No. I am trying to get you to see sense," I lied.

"_You _are the one who needs to see sense."

"And how is that?" I cried, jumping to my feet. "All I am trying to say is that these people are evil, and that we should be less submissive to them!" That, at least, was not untrue in my mind.

"_And how will that help_?" he shouted, taking me by surprise. Elros was always slow to anger, especially with me. "If you truly believe they are evil, do you think that they will suddenly decide to let us go if we act obstinate?"

"That is not the point!" I said, frustrated. I could feel my heart hammering furiously in my chest, like a hot sword being beaten.

He slid off the windowsill, clenching his fingers, looking with his white skin, unbound hair and loose cream tunic like a righteous china doll. He had always been smaller, frailer than me. I had always considered him someone that needed protection – or rather, someone I needed to protect. Even if he was strong, I as the elder did not always acknowledge his strength. Recently, this feeling had been fading. "Then what is?"

We quarreled, and our voices rose. We insulted each other, we brought up things that had happened years before, we fought over topics that had no relevance. Then the fight became physical, and we tackled each other to the ground. There was only one other time I ever disagreed with him thus, but that happened many years later, and is a tale for another day.

After a while the door burst open and someone with a strong grip pulled us apart.

"_Enough!_" His voice was loud and commanding, and we stood still, breathing heavily, scarlet to the ears. Maglor held us firmly by the shoulders, his face twisted in shock and anger. "What barbaric behaviour is this? Do you think you are Orcs, trying to kill each other?"

"That would suit you, would it not?" I cried, twisting free of his grip and turning on him. I do not doubt he had let me go only because of my words. I was so angry I was almost blind. Everything, I thought in my rage, was frustrating and pointless and cruel. There was no room for happiness in this war. There was no sense in kindness.

Maglor stared at me, looking both confused and vexed, and then said, "No. What...?"

"It would!" I insisted before he could gather his wits and continue. "You only brought us here to satisfy your pride! Take the children and put their heads on spikes. That will show the world how deadly we are! You cowards!"

"Elrond!"

"Do not say my name! _Do not touch me_!" I screamed when he attempted to reach out to me. "I do not want you ever to touch me! I never want to see you! Go away!" I was throwing a fit, and cared not for Elros' frightened expression or Maglor's considerably paled face. When I finished cursing him, there was a heavy, palpable silence. It felt strange, as if I were in a dream, and I barely realised when Maglor turned on his heel and exited the room, or when Elros began to cry, his mouth pulled back in an ugly grimace.

The rest of the night was vague and hazy; I do not remember what happened afterwards, and Elros never cared to tell me.

* * *

><p>The next day, we found out that Maglor had left with several of his men on some kind of trip, and would not be back for a while. I felt relieved, for I had no desire to encounter him after the previous night. Our lessons began, and for a while Elros and I were distracted from our misgivings. Our tutor in history and mathematics was an elleth with dark brown hair and a slender frame. She was rather dry, but she taught us well, and I appreciated that she did not talk to us outside of our lessons. Our classes in poetry and music, which were supposed to be taught to us by Maglor, were temporarily suspended.<p>

Three weeks passed, in which I started to grow comfortable in our chamber. It slowly began to look as if it was lived in; the bed was never quite made, the edges of the carpet were sometimes overturned, and books lay, either open or closed, on the desks or the bedside tables. Elros found a small stack of board games and a pack of cards beneath the bed, and we spent many evenings playing Ludo and Snakes-and-Ladders and Rummy, though our mother always told us that cards were meant for older elves. No one here protested, though, so we didn't care. An element of familiarity had crept into our lives, and we felt less awkward acting like denizens rather than captives.

It was during this period that I discovered the library. I was passing through the Great Hall one overcast morning with the intention to go outside, and noticed for the first time a polished oak door adjacent to the route that led to the baths. For a time I lingered where I was, though, because someone was plucking a harp and singing an old, rustic lullaby – the sort that would probably be sung around a fire on the streets, or in a children's bedroom, rather than in a great elven hall – and it reminded me of Sirion so much I felt tears spring to my eyes, and had to chew my lip to keep them from falling.

The elf was alone, sitting on a stool in a corner. There was no one listening save me and a couple of others lounging by one of the hearths. His hearty, lonely voice resounded in the Great Hall. It made the fires dance and the tapestries glow. It made the grim ceilings brighter. It made me want to sit at his bare feet, curl up, and close my eyes, so I could pretend I was at home, that I was safe, that my mother was in the next chamber, sewing, that my father was on his way back from the sea to...to perhaps hand me a new toy...and maybe rub my head...

At this point I remembered an episode in my life from when I was around four years of age. It was one of those few occasions that my father and I had been out for a walk by the river. I recall the water's metallic sheen as it lay beneath the sultry Sun like a half-finished, discarded sword. My father had a strong stride, though he kept his hands lackadaisically in his shirt pockets, and held his head stiffly against the wind, his knotted hair whipping back and forth. I was trundling beside him, trying to keep my balance on the rocks, wishing at once to remove myself from his imposing, sombre presence and to stay beside him, for he was my beloved father who I rarely saw.

I was so occupied by my anxiety I forgot to enjoy the view.

At length I began to fall behind, and called for him to stop. He turned and said impassively, "Hurry up," in his far-reaching, sailor's voice, and I scurried ahead, tripping on one of the treacherous stones and landing hard on my front, shallowly cutting my elbow and my cheek. A sharp pain stunned me for a moment, before I got, trembling, to my knees, my hands still on the grime-dusted ground for support.

Father did not move. He said again, "Hurry up," and then, "you are my son."

Breaking from my reverie, pushing unneeded thoughts from my mind, I advanced to the newly found door. I could not bear to be tortured with sweet music any longer, even if that was, to me, what made a house warm. In Sirion our mother had been fond of reed instruments, and she despised the violin, so our bards blew their blue-strung flutes during supper, when she was most relaxed, and I would wonder how their mouths never got terribly dry; when I had taken up the flute, I perpetually needed a cup of water by my side.

Passing the entrance, I found myself in a small, rectangular room with a dull red carpet and a single table upon which sat two sticks of incense that produced a calming, reverent smell of lavender (_Noldor._They'd treat their libraries as temples). There was another, larger door left ajar, and, curious, I pushed it open. I found myself looking at what was probably the most beautiful room in the fortress. This, I decided, carried Noldorin style, even if it was somewhat marred by the strangeness of the general fashion of the building.

It was a rather compact chamber – Caranthir had not been fond of reading – but fulfilled its purpose. The low, ribbed vault ceiling was entirely painted in shades of brown, caramel, and pale green, in an intricate floral design, and the floor was of cool, checkered marble. Books lined the walls snugly, their spines illuminated by brass chandeliers, tall candelabras, and round stained-glass windows hidden, from this angle, by the design of the ceiling. To my front there was a square table strewn with papers, and behind it a rustic sofa. Still ahead there was a long, polished table with many chairs stacked neatly at its sides, and at the very end of the room, there was a tapestry finer than any I had ever seen, woven as if with magic. It depicted, to my surprise, Elbereth, her golden hair all adorned with white flowers, her mouth rosy; she was placing a bright star carefully on the velvety night sky.

Embarrassingly, my sorrow was forgotten. The music was faint in my ears as I went forward, lips pursed, gleefully wondering which book I could read first. I was – and still am – interested in many things: science, classical literature, mathematics. This library should have had books on all those topics. Still silly from happiness, I peered at the first book I saw: it was called _Aldudénië_. To my great disappointment, it was in Quenya, which I could not fluently read.

Placing the book back in its shelf, I determined to come back here later, perhaps another day. Right now I was going to tell Elros about this place; we could come here and read and play games if we wanted.

Smiling like an imp, I pushed my hands into my trouser-pockets and left, striving not to whistle.

* * *

><p>I found my new familiarity with Amon Ereb both exhilarating and somewhat annoying, but I could bear it so long as no one pestered my brother or me. Maedhros kept to himself, and Maglor was gone, though I perceived he would return before long. A bitter taste burst on my tongue whenever I thought of him, and I prepared myself for his return.<p>

Sure enough, one day, in the early hours of the afternoon, a horn sounded from outside the gates and the guards from the battlements shouted to the porters that their lord had come back. I was sitting on the stairs to the Great Hall with a hound's head on my lap, and stood up as the gates swung open. Maglor and his company rode in with all the grandeur of a vanquished army, and I tilted to the side as Maedhros walked quickly past me, striving to maintain his dignity. I watched, almost fascinated at the scene that unfurled before me.

"Maglor!" he said. "How fare you? Maglor?" His weary-looking brother dismounted from his bay horse and swayed, his face wan, his dark brows drawn in pain. Maedhros held him by the arm, steadying him, forehead creased with anxiety.

I felt little sympathy for either of them.

Maglor mouthed something like "Get a healer." I craned my neck and caught a glimpse of a dark stain on his clothes. It did not frighten or disgust me, for it was not the blood of my kin – if we were dimly related through sullied bloodlines, I refused to acknowledge it.

I stepped aside as he was helped up the stairs. As his men followed I clamped my nose and coughed, for they carried with them a foul smell that came with not bathing for days. I guessed, however, that I must have smelled even worse when I arrived here. When they were gone I turned to the barbican, whose gates were closing at the shouts of the guards, and wondered why I hadn't run. "What an ass I am," I muttered, and then went inside, realising that I had instinctively not dashed out because my brother was still in our chamber.

* * *

><p><strong>Note: <em>Aldudénië<em> is a lament for the Darkening of Valinor, composed by Elemmírë of the Vanyar.**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

That evening I experienced one of those rare times I found it difficult to think or to amuse myself in some way, and I wished my brother would stop studying his history textbook so he could talk with me. He was at a table, hunched over, his legs swinging back and forth, back and forth, as he kept his eyes glued to the semi-thick volume before him. A cup of honeyed water, which he had requested from an attendant, sat forgotten and cold by the candelabra on the table, and he did not look up even when a drop of wax, shaped like an egg, fell almost mischievously in the drink with a conspicuous _plink_.

Presently I said, rolling over to my side, "Will you stop? It is very late."

"Not at the moment." The candlelight flicked across his face.

"Why?"

"Be patient, Elrond," he muttered with a splendid nonchalance that even Maedhros might have been proud of. I wasn't sure if I was impressed or horrified. I said, changing my tactics, "When will you finish?"

He laughed once, twice. I counted. I was so surprised I almost checked to see if he was all right, for the last time I had heard him laugh was the day before Sirion had been ruined. "Do you want me to throw this book at you?" he said, holding the volume threateningly in his hand, though it was obviously heavy for him and bent his wrist at a slightly odd angle.

"Yes," I said.

He flung it at me. It missed my head and hit the wall, then dropped pathetically on the furs, its pages bent, mutilated. For a moment I stared at it, then at Elros. "Are you mad?" I screeched, jumping and shaking the bed. "You actually threw it! I was being sarcastic!"

"Oh," he said shamefacedly, raising his palm to his mouth, "I threw a book! Elrond, is it all right? I do not know what came over me."

You can titter all you like, but I was not disconcerted by his lack of concern for me; sometimes we hurled objects at each other – whatever came into hand – but it was often done in good humour. Books, though, were exceedingly precious during the war, both in material and in knowledge, and only the very wealthy could boast of having them on their shelves; I knew a person in Sirion who never read, but carefully lined one wall in his chamber with opulent, leather-bound books, merely for fashion. I am not known for being violent, but to this day I want to hit him with my sandal.

I picked up the volume Elros had thrown and tenderly smoothed the grainy pages. Then I arched my brows and whistled, holding it up for him to see. "The pages are not torn, but the spine has become loose."

Elros made a low, frustrated sound, and began to advance towards me. "I ought to be flogged – " he began, then stopped abruptly, as if he had just realised something. The next second his shrill, drawn-out scream burst through the room. It contrasting sharply with his earlier groan, providing a fantastically abrupt shift in sound, and I leapt out of bed with my own cry of surprise. Elros was kneeling on the floor, nursing his left foot, his head thrown back, baring his convulsing neck. At that moment I noticed the nail I had seen, several days before, sticking out by my brother, along with a bloody patch on the floor.

"Wait a moment!" I said, dashing out of the room. "I will bring someone!" I felt guilty for leaving Elros alone, but I had no medical knowledge to speak of, and mentally cursed myself for not reporting that wretched, insignificant nail. I knew where the infirmary was, but there would be no one there at this time; it was an hour to midnight. Stopping for a moment on the dark stairs, I pondered. I had no desire to wake Maedhros, though he would likely be the most efficient person to go to. It was not rational to go elsewhere; but I remembered his shadowed face in the deep corridors that time when I got lost, and I did not want to stir his wrath.

I knew where Maglor's chamber was. It also was in the east wing, on a lower floor. I had never been inside, though in the weeks that he was gone I had passed it while exploring. Drawing a deep breath to calm myself from both worry and anger, I went downstairs and through – finally – a _well-lit_ hallway, and tried hard to remember which door led to Maglor's room. At length I decided it was the fourth one to the right, made of thick oak and painted in a leaf-pattern, and knocked loudly, three times. The sound fell like a dead weight in the narrow corridor.

I was met with silence. Gritting my teeth, and more frustrated with Maglor than ever before, I banged on the door hard, twice, though it bruised my fist. There was no way he could miss that. Sucking my teeth and cradling my hand, I stood back and waited. At length I heard his footfall, and he emerged from his chamber with a walking stick. His hair had been washed, and hung in damp, knotted coils about his shoulders. Bandages were visible beneath his indecently half-buttoned tunic, and there were faint grey shadows beneath his eyes. He looked like a wraith.

"What happened?" he asked, sounding mildly concerned. I had expected his voice to be hoarse, but it was quite smooth. Luckily, that probably meant he was not so tired as to fall over.

It took me half a minute to explain the situation, after which he said, "Go back to your chamber. I will be with you shortly."

I found Elros with tears streaming down his face from pain and shock, and sat by him and told him he would be fine. He put his head on my shoulder and closed his eyes.

In the next few minutes Maglor, who had clubbed his hair and donned a woolen mantle to cover up, had entered our chamber with medical supplies in his free hand. Placing them on the bedside table he picked Elros up and sat him on the covers, and examined the wound, holding my brother's foot gently. "Does it hurt badly?" he asked. Elros struggled. "No."

"I am not trying to test how brave you are. Does it hurt badly?"

My brother lowered his eyes. "Not terribly."

With a cloth that smelled like alcohol he swiped the injury a few times in quick movements. He did not apologise or look up when Elros whimpered. His breathing somewhat shallow, he applied the salve, then bandages. "You stay off that foot," he said when he was finished. "I will get a healer to change the bandages later, and to give you some herbal tea."

He was brief and unattached, his face and neck dotted with sweat. Something stirred in me as I watched him. He was wounded. He walked with a limp. He smelled of herbs and linen. He was a confusing person, as was his brother. The Fëanorionnath bewildered me because I could not understand the way they thought. I could not understand their motives. As Maglor was hobbling towards the exit I swallowed what remained of my dignity – there wasn't much – and called, "Thank you." I could not say his name. I realised, then, that I never actually used his name, and that this was the first time I had the desire to.

Maglor, after looking oddly at me, nodded stiffly and left, shutting the door behind him. The last I saw of him was the flutter of his cape, tumbling and disappearing in the shadows. His footsteps faded.

* * *

><p>As the days passed, I had to give my attention to my brother and my lessons. Elros' wound proved to be quite mild, and he recovered within a week. During that time Maglor began to teach us, and his poetry lessons took place once a day after our midday meal. For an hour he would sit with us at our desks. Or rather, he sat on a table with his knees crossed, holding a glass of wine and giving instructions while waving his free hand like a conductor at an orchestra, while Elros and I sat on the chairs and analysed and memorised the poems he set for us. Our music lessons, on the other hand, were our last in the day, during which Maglor abandoned both the table and the wine and instead sat on the floor – and made us do the same – while we plucked harps and blew into flutes. He was very serious about the music, and tolerated no mistakes.<p>

I discovered he had a rather extraordinary array of facial expressions. For instance, when my brother or I provided an analysis that was, to him, maladroit, he would open his mouth as if to say something, then shut it tightly, tilt his head to one side, and narrow his eyes sarcastically, which made him look like an indignant seagull. I found it quite an achievement on his part. Such reactions, contrary to being intimidating, to me were rather funny, and Elros concurred.

Maglor, I learnt, was quite as sardonic and mocking as his older brother. One particular incidence convinced me of this. On an afternoon when we were reciting old Vanyarin poems, I asked sheepishly if we could continue our studies in the library. Maglor's jaw dropped, and his silver goblet almost fell from his slackened hand, which had been twirling the cup dispassionately but firmly. Such was his astonishment that, briefly, I thought I had unwittingly started a war (over what, I was quite unsure).

Silence bloomed as all three of us realised how inappropriate that question was; we were, after all, at an enemy's fort. Maglor, however, pursed his lips, raised his brows so that they nearly touched his temples – he almost looked offended, but surely he wasn't – and said wryly, "Yes, we can..._continue in the library_." His enunciation was exquisite.

Despite these peculiar moments, he maintained a careful distance from us. After teaching us, he would wish us a good day and retreat to his chamber; he only talked to us when he had to. It was ironic that the moment I began to grow somewhat interested in him, he withdrew from us almost entirely.

* * *

><p>A month passed swiftly, and then another. Our time was taken up mainly by our lessons, our talks and our playthings. I grew to despise rain in any amount, for the sky wept more than the Elven captives at Angband. Usually it was a persistent, irritating drizzle that continued for days and that greatly dampened the walls and our spirits. This was the sort I disliked with the most fervour, for it was both unremarkable and unceasing. Sometimes, though, the heavens would snarl as if with anger for the war and for its own patience, and cast down such a violent storm of rain and hail that some windows of the fortress would smash to many, glittering shards, and the lightning would split the sky that was stained a deep, mulberry-purple.<p>

On a free, partially overcast afternoon, Elros and I were sitting on stools in the kennels with Agorael, around a coal fire. We visited him quite frequently, and spending time amid the hounds and the somewhat unpleasant smell had become a routine.

Agorael had for the past hour been telling us stories, some real, some not, and he'd told us a bit about himself. He'd been born in Beleriand, he said, in Celegorm's host, but when his fair-haired lord died he joined Maglor. Presently he was telling us a fable from Valinor, about a woman who talked to a creek, which I had begun to lose interest in. I yawned and twirled a strand of my hair, while Elros listened with rapt attention, cheeks in his hands. I gazed at the courtyard that was empty save for a few dogs.

Suddenly I got up, disturbing the other two. "What is it, Elrond?" asked Agorael, looking a bit peeved at the interruption of his story. I tolerated him mainly because he was just a follower of the Fëanorionnath, and had as far as I know perpetrated no battles. Truthfully, I was somewhat fond of him, but right now I would have liked to be alone, and said so.

"D'you want me to accompany you?"

"No, thank you."

Elros said sagely to the older elf, "He gets like this sometimes. He is very odd. You can finish the story." He grinned broadly, showing his teeth. Agorael laughed nervously in short bursts; his high-pitched voice was entirely incongruous with the dull, straw-filled kennels. I resisted the urge to cringe, but Elros' smile grew wider; he'd grown attached to this eccentric, kind-hearted man. Slowly, we were picking away the defences we built around ourselves as we adjusted to the fact that no-one here would arbitrarily commit so bold, so pointless an act as killing us.

Leaving them to their talk, I crossed the barbican and went inside. I decided to wander around, and advanced towards the west wing, which I had not inspected much, and took a serpentine flight of narrow stairs that smelled of dust and age, and that were lit with stained-glass windows that flung deformed patches of bright colours across the masonry. Here was a butter-yellow, and there a coquettish rose. Along with the hues, the claustrophobic space and the curved walls gave the impression of being inside a kaleidoscope. I stopped, my head spinning for a moment, and placed my hand over a square of sombre blue on the wall, and felt my lips quirk. Cupping my hand, I pretended to catch the light, and then chortled at my own silliness.

I realised for the first time, though I had known it, that the fortress seemed as if it had been partially renovated, and that the new architect preferred a style that leaned towards the flamboyant and the dramatic. I pressed my nose against one of the window-panes, and found I could see the courtyard and the people in it below, bathed in carmine. The sky was a bloody, diseased mouth.

My happiness faded like a punctured balloon. Sickened, reminded of undeserved death and suffering, I withdrew, and continued on my way, frowning. At length I came to a landing that led to the first floor, which composed of a hallway that was carpeted and somewhat wide. The first door, of rustic wood, to the right, was half-open. Curious, and somewhat ashamed of my nosiness, I neared it and peered inside.

To my surprise, what I saw was Maedhros sitting at a desk, his expression grim, poring over a book of what was probably accounts. I had accidentally stumbled upon his chamber. He must have felt my gaze on him, for he looked up sharply, revealing his astonishingly large eyes, illuminated eerily by the sunlight that seeped through the windows in his chamber, so that they appeared pewter rather than their usual slate-grey. I took a hasty step back, nearly tripping, but he called me inside.

As I came in I noticed that the room was rather small, with minimal furniture. The only objects that spoke of forgotten luxury were the gold-and-burgundy Noldorin sword that hung above an unlit, charred hearth, and the soft cream carpet by the low, neat bed. The windows faced the West, and through a flying buttress I saw the Andram hills, reaching lowly towards the sky, yet seeming to sink down to the plains helplessly, lesser cousins of the Ered Luin.

I shifted my glance to Maedhros, who was looking at me, appearing somewhat bemused. When the silence grew nearly unbearable and I had begun to sweat, he said, tapping his index finger once on his desk, "You are...Elrond." His even, blasé voice had only a hint of query in it. I was surprised at his sharpness, for he scarcely communicated with my brother and me.

"How did you know?" I asked, flummoxed and a bit disturbed, for even the attendants at Sirion had sometimes been confused as to who was who; my brother and I appeared painfully alike, and even our hair was cut in a similar fashion.

"Your brother looks more intelligent."

That was probably the most anticlimactic moment of my seven years. I had no time to react because he said, "Why the long face? You have been here for some months now; I would have thought a strong lad like you would not mourn so; your parents, as you know, are alive, and you are being treated well here, as far as I know."

His audacity made me suck in a breath, but I said nothing. Maedhros inclined his head to one side. "You know you are free to go when you come of age; I thought my brother made that clear."

"Who would take us after we spent so many years with you?" I asked, emboldened by his words.

"Lord Círdan would do so," he replied, "and Ereinion Gil-Galad would welcome you."

"I knew Lord Círdan," I said, somewhat irritated by his confidence, "but why would Gil-Galad have an interest in me and my brother?"

A shadow passed over Maedhros' face. His fingers twitched. "You are distantly related. And I knew his father well."

Whatever he was going to say, I had not expected that, and asked, perhaps more curious than I should have been, "How?"

After a long pause he said tightly, "Go read your history books, or ask Maglor." He returned his attention to his book, picking up a pen and beginning to write. The feather made a strangely pleasant, though muted, _scratch, scratch, scratch_ sound. His breathing grew heavy. "Leave," he said suddenly, not bothering to look at me. I flinched at his tone, dithered for a moment in confusion, and then quickly scrambled away, pulling the door shut behind me. Once in the corridor I hunched over, holding my knees, panting, and then wiped the perspiration from my cheek.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Having taken Maedhros' stingy advice, I rapped on Maglor's door once, twice, then waited for a long time. As previously, silence swelled and engulfed me and slithered through the corridor. It appeared there was no one inside. "Where in this entire fortress could that man be?" I thought. Feeling impatient, and more than a little irritated due to Maedhros' abruptness, I opened the unlocked door and walked in, and straightaway the faint smell of ink crept into my nostrils.

What met me was something akin more to a study than a bedroom. While Maedhros' chamber had been rather bare and severe, Maglor's was almost as small, but cluttered and disorderly. There was a long oak desk, upon which rested two stacks of books and another of parchments, a bed with one bedside table and a chest for clothes at its foot, and a finely wrought wooden chair by the single, mullioned window, and little else could have fit inside without looking incongruous. Yet Maglor had managed to squeeze onto the wooden floor a fine harp that rested against a leg of his desk, and an old tapestry, shot with gold, on the wall behind his bed, which depicted several elves and a white pony drinking from a fountain in a flower-garden.

At that moment it was obvious to me how Maglor's tomes and his studies and, perhaps, his music, provided him his few and perhaps only sources of pleasure, keeping him lonesome company for many hours. This was odd because, as I had reluctantly noticed, he inspired in his followers great affection for him. Agorael spoke of him fondly, and many attendants whose names I knew not did so, too. He should have had a string of interesting conversations with the folk of Amon Ereb by now.

I had earlier decided I would wait for the chamber's master to arrive, yet soon, as my habits decreed, I began to fidget, and decided to take a nose about the room. Tentatively, I went to the rosewood coffer with a wolf design by the bed. It was half-open, and when I lifted the lid with a finger I saw to my surprise several detailed portraits in black ink, preserved in glass.

I pondered. What, I said to myself, was the harm in glancing at them? Had I and my brother not been wronged in numerous ways by these Fëanorionnath in their dark halls, who had taken away all that was precious to us, even our dignity? A skim over a few sketches seemed, in contrast, as important as an extra incisor in the gums.

Wiping my damp hands on my trousers, I picked up the first portrait. It was of an elf with fair hair and sturdy shoulders, who wore a wreath of marigolds on his brow; on the bottom right corner it read, simply, 'Turko'. The second showed another elf, with black curls and very bright eyes; there was haughtiness in the way he raised his finely arched brows, and beneath his scarf it was written, 'Curvo'.

I blinked, confused; surely these were _epessës; _they could not be real names. Intrigued, I looked at the third picture, of an elleth. Her lips curved upwards in the smallest hint of a smile, and even in the colourless portrait, I could see the slight blush in her cheeks. Her air was exquisitely captivating, as if she was learned and pithy and perhaps somewhat arrogant. There was no name on her picture.

My conscience chose at that moment to indignantly pinch me, and my hands began to shake with excitement. I quickly tucked the portraits back in their coffer, my heart a frantic hammer against my ribcage.

I turned back, and saw to my horror that Maglor had soundlessly entered the room and, with his hands clasped behind his back imposingly, was gazing at me with narrowed eyes. "Elrond," he said quietly, "what are you doing here? Why did you come in without my permission?"

I opened my mouth, but could form no words to speak. Since Maglor had started teaching my brother and me, I had grudgingly begun to offer him a certain amount of respect. Ever had I been taught by my elders at Sirion that the master occupied an almost higher place than the parent, and this mindset had seeped, however little, into my behaviour around Maglor, against my will. My insolence was, embarrassingly, a sore blow to my ego, exacerbated by being caught.

Maglor, after a moment, sighed tiredly, bowing his head, and asked, "What do you want?"

Not in the mood to lie, I explained, stuttering, what Maedhros had told me. Maglor's expression changed, and he arched an eyebrow, looking amused, and said, "Of course."

We stared at each other. At least, I stared at the laces of his tunic, tied in a neat bow, then shifted my eyes to his elbow, which was pressed against his waist as protectively as one may hold a lover. He seemed uncomfortable, gazing at my slippered feet, mouth twitching as if he had a peeled lemon on his tongue.

I said awkwardly, "Are you, um, not going to tell me?"

He paused, returned curtly, "Bear no grudge against my brother, Elrond, for refusing to educate you about bloodlines and half-muffled history." His mocking tone made me flush hotly. "Come, sit, for I can see by the gleam in your eyes that you will not be sated unless I – "

"You would tell me?" I said, not particularly caring that I was interrupting him,

"That is what you wanted."

"I still want a lot of things."

"I cannot give you everything, boy," he said, but he was smiling, though it contained little spirit. I felt a sudden surge of pity for him, for his dewy, sorrow-filled eyes, though I knew such a feeling was both futile and needless. Noticing that he was gesturing to his bed, I quickly sat on the covers, clutching at them with my hands. Maglor sat on his chair and crossed his legs, looking as if he was going to give me another lesson on poetry.

He put his chin in his hand and inclined his head to one side, like a dramatic actor, and said, "I wonder where I should begin. Grandmother's death? The Awakening?" He was talking to himself, though the term 'grandmother' made me blink in confusion, till I belatedly realised he was talking of Míriel Serindë. That he had such close ties to a person famous in history was bewildering, even if I had dimly known it.

Ultimately he chose to start with Cuiviénen. Initially his eyes were hazy as he talked; he was reciting only what he had read in books and had gathered from hearsay. Then they grew clearer, brighter, as his words gave shape to sharp memory.

I did not punctuate his lengthy tale with questions, choosing to listen intently. He did not look at me at any point, keeping his eyes fixed sometimes on the floor, at others on a crack in the wall behind me. At one point his gaze fell on my lap, but he quickly shifted it to his shoes. I must have changed my position on the bed at some point, for when he finished I was sitting cross-legged, my back hunched in an undignified manner that Mother would surely have chastised me for.

We sat in silence for a time. My head felt like a sack of bricks with all he had said, and I swayed a little. At length I slowly turned to him, wondering if I would anger him if I talked. "Maglor," I said, "do you think you can ever find peace?" He had probably been asked this before, but I wanted to know.

His tale had rendered him sorrowful. He looked pathetic, like one of the sad drunkards that stumbled in the streets of the part of Sirion inhabited by Men. I was glad he was not weeping, for I would not have known what to do. "Oh, child," he said, and stopped abruptly, like a horseman suddenly pulling up his steed in mid-gallop. Then he straightened and grew animated. "Do not torture me with visions of peace when I know there will be none. We cannot look at the crescent Moon in the starlit sky and feel the love of our Lady Elbereth."

I did not know whom he meant by 'we', and I did not care to ask.

Maglor turned to me at last and smiled. "Did my story sate you? Or would you like me to say also what I think is going to happen? That will take till the next sunrise, unfortunately." He glanced out the window. I followed his gaze and started, for it was night, and the plains were cast into shadows, scarcely noticeable against the dimly illuminated Ered Luin, which seemed to float steadily in nothingness.

"It is late," said Maglor, standing up and stretching. "The evening meal is being set. Off you go, boy. Your brother is waiting for you."

When I trundled out, I realised that, for the first time, I had spoken his name.

* * *

><p>Some days afterwards, late morning, I had been sitting at one of the stools in the Great Hall, my head resting on the table, listening to someone pick a harp, when Maglor emerged from the east wing's staircase as suddenly as a ghost, advanced to me, and said, surprising me with his abruptness, "I suppose you know there is a feast being held today? Our soldiers did well some days back on the field – all the Orcs were killed, and there was hardly a scratch on our group. What a rarity."<p>

I did know, from the attendants' chatter, and told him. "I hope, Elrond," said Maglor, "that you realise you and your brother are welcome to join us. I know you prefer to take your meals in your chamber, but it might do you some good to have a slightly late night with our folk. Everyone will be there."

I stared, taken aback, raised my head, then cleared my throat. "I will consider it."

"There is one more thing."

I awaited him to continue.

"You recall my brother telling you that I would teach you and Elros to prepare meals? Well, I will not ask you to do so presently, but I would like you and Elros to come to the kitchens in some time and for a while watch the preparation of the food."

Whatever I had expected him to say, it was not that, and I dryly arched an eyebrow. Maglor said, "I will be there with you. In fact, it will be me you will be watching cook." He grinned at my expression. "Oh, think not that I am a lord and so know not how to make my own food! I will await you and Elros in the kitchens at the fourth hour of this afternoon. Make sure you wear only cotton, and assuredly something old or worn." He inclined his head once and left, disappearing around a corner as suddenly as he came, silent as a phantom.

I returned to my chamber and saw Elros at his desk, and told him of our plans for the rest of the day. He had never relished the idea of cooking, and scowled when I gave him the information. I, on the other hand, was more enthusiastic than I liked to admit. We had rarely been let into the kitchens at home, and I had always wanted to know what happened on the counters that were too tall for me to reach and in the gargantuan, heat-blackened vats of steaming, sputtering liquid.

A while later I changed into appropriately stained clothes and went with my brother down to the kitchens. Maglor was already present, wearing a sleeveless tunic that had seen some wear, his hair bound tightly in a plait. He smiled when he saw us. "Glad to see you both here. Follow me." He pushed open the doors, causing his braid to sway like a coquettish maid, and we went in.

The kitchens of Amon Ereb were a cluster of vast, smoke-filled chambers that thrust upon me such a motley array of aromas that I took a step back upon entering. Maglor grasped my shoulder to steady me. "No sense in fainting now, Elrond," he said pleasantly, and picked me up – I felt very frail in his strong hands – and set me on a counter, which he dusted with his fingers. He did the same with my brother, who squirmed on the black slate. There were bowls of raw food and various instruments set beside us.

Without preamble Maglor proceeded with his work. I watched as he cut vegetables and meat, peeled potatoes and kneaded cream-coloured dough for bread. "I know bread is usually made by women," he told us, "but I want you to know how to make it, anyway." He let out a sharp breath through pursed lips and raised his brows, pushing a strand of hair from his temple with the back of his hand. A sheen of sweat glistened on his bare skin, highlighting the firmly knotted, restless muscles beneath.

I looked down at my own, rather skinny arms and crossed them, feeling a twinge of shame. But the feeling soon passed. People were rushing about, carrying bowls and saucers and plates; I saw two ellith lugging a cauldron, and could not hide a grin. I was not used to such swirling chaos, and strangely enough, I liked it. When I asked Maglor if it was ever like this in Valinor, he laughed. "Not usually, but our house was always swarming with guests and with attendants."

Elros, in contrast, seemed quite bored, and sat with his chin in his hand, sighing and swinging his little, slippered feet. When Maglor eventually released us, my brother hopped quickly from the counter, nearly colliding with an ellon holding a bowl of fruits. The elf staggered, swayed, and turned half a circle on one foot before finally steadying and puffing, by which time Elros was sucking his teeth, red with embarrassment. "Elros," chided Maglor, "be careful. You will knock someone over if you rush like that!"

Elros murmured an apology and then fled. Maglor looked after him, shaking his head. Then he turned to me, the corners of his lips tugging upwards in a smile. "I think he is afraid of this place; what a Man-like quality. I have cooked for my family countless times, and have never thought it odd. I hope you will be there tonight, Elrond."

The past hour had heightened my humour, and I nodded earnestly. Maglor's smile grew wider. "I shall see you soon, then!"

I grew eager to come downstairs later, and eventually, when the Sun left the sky and our chamber was plunged into grey shadows, I dressed quickly in my best clothes – which were not terribly extravagant, but well-made and dignified – and asked my brother to plait my hair.

"Why the excitement?" Elros asked me as he sat cross-legged behind my back on our bed. I did not answer, but allowed him to part and braid my hair. His hands were somewhat clumsy, but they were gentle, and soon I had a glossy fishtail that hung between my shoulder-blades. I offered to braid his hair in return, but he shook his head, saying he would prefer to leave it loose.

We held hands and trundled down the stairs into the Great Hall. Until now, I had not realised quite how many people lived in the fortress. We could scarcely walk without poking someone. Craning my neck, I thought I caught sight of Agorael somewhere in the crowd. Even more trestle tables and long benches had been laid out, and food was being served.

Elros tugged my hand, and we went to sit on the edge of one of the benches. I drew a long breath, observing my surroundings, trying to steady my oddly flustered heart. Someone was playing a flute, and another singing. A steward offered me a glass of purple wine, but I rejected it, and instead sampled some soft cheese from the table that melted wonderfully on my tongue.

I looked up when Elros shook my arm and pointed at someone. It was Maglor, gaily chattering to a group of ellith. His lustrous, coal-black curls were held away from his face with an ornate clip of _mithril_, and gently touched his slender waist. A carmine cloak fell from the shoulders of his tunic, and a garnet gleamed on the index finger of his left hand. His knee-high boots of fine brown leather were laced into intricate knots. He looked singularly fair and regal; not a lord, but a prince; I scarcely recognised him.

As if sensing our gaze on him, Maglor glanced our way and saw us. He spoke a word to the ellith, and came over to us.

"I am glad you both could arrive," he said brightly; his eyes were glittering with pleasure. They were a rather unusual colour, being neither the hard, calculating silver that was so prevalent among the Noldor, nor of the clear blue that existed among other elves, but a brooding grey like an evening storm, so dark they were almost black. Once, his colouring had frightened me, for against his pale skin, his eyes stood out starkly. Large. Penetrating. They no longer were intimidating to me.

"Have you eaten yet?" he said. When we said that we had not, he called for some food. Presently, a page brought us a plate of mashed potatoes, sprinkled with cheese, and a portion of roast venison. Maglor pushed a small glass of yellow wine into my hands, and took a full goblet for himself. "Go on," he said. "You can share it."

"We were never allowed this at home," said Elros.

Maglor shrugged and scoffed haughtily. "You are not at home, and I am sure your Elvish blood will stop you from throwing up after a few sips of such weak brew." His gaze was cheeky.

I hesitated. "Just a sip," insisted Maglor. I took a quick breath and gulped the drink, sloshing half of it down my tunic. Elros arched an eyebrow and then burst into laughter, burying his face in his hands. Maglor took the glass from me, trembling with the effort to suppress his own chuckles. "Perhaps you are right," he said. "We should wait till you are a few years older, though by then you'll be begging me to put a glass of wine in your hands. Go to your room and change, then come back."

Frowning because my shirt had been ruined, I did as was told, wondering if I would truly ever want to taste such foul liquid again, and when I returned I saw Maedhros had joined the table. He wore a deep green velvet jacket with a gold pattern, and underneath that, a white silk doublet. His hair fell about his shoulders, and a copper circlet rested on his wide clear brow; his long legs were stretched out beneath the table.

"I was just telling my brother," he said dryly as I sat down, "that he is a fool if he thinks he can offer wine to children and expect no great misfortune to befall." Despite his tone there was a smile on his face, and to my surprise I saw dimples in his cheeks. It was the only thing about him that spoke of childish innocence, and it made him look far younger than he usually did, like a new soldier or a young, fresh general.

Of course, he was neither of those things.

"Maedhros, you took your first sip of wine when you were a couple of years old, and you have never tired of the taste!" Maglor returned, leaning back. The ellyn on the other side of the table grinned and exchanged glances, though they daren't laugh at their lord.

Maedhros gave his brother a wry look and picked up his goblet. "At least," he said, "I do not impose my dubious ideas on folk whose faces are still soft with baby fat." He took a sip of his wine, and looked rather more elegant than I had some minutes ago.

The table grew more crowded, and shouts and banters rang out from around the hall. Maglor had disappeared, and we were left with Maedhros' imposing presence. Yet soon we grew merry with good food and with music, and shyly began to speak to the other elves. At least, I was shy; Elros was chattering like a lark, his cheeks suffused with a healthy glow.

Within an hour I had eaten so much that my stomach began to ache, and I pushed away whatever food was offered me, feeling a little ill. It was not very late, but my head began to nod with the buzz of people's voices around me, and I cupped my chin in my hand and tried not to yawn. I felt a firm tap on the side of my head and glanced up to find Maedhros looking at me. "You cannot want to go to bed," he said. "You are a part of Amon Ereb now, and you'll have to keep awake if you don't want to miss the best bit of the evening."

Leaning back, I rubbed my eyes, dully wondering at the terms 'part of Amon Ereb' and 'best bit of the evening'.

I sat up, alert, when all of a sudden the crowd went silent. Their eyes seemed to be fixed onto a spot at the other end of the Hall. I craned my neck to try and see what it was among shifting heads, but Maedhros told me it was his brother. "Sit back, Elrond," he said, "and listen."

Through the silence, a harp played. Maglor began to sing, and visions danced before my eyes, and for a while I lost myself in peaceful dreams.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong>

Turko – Celegorm's epessë, from his father-name, Turkafinwë.

Curvo – Curufin's epessë, from his father-name, Curufinwë.

The portrait of the woman is of Maglor's wife.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Maglor's song had been wordless, a fine tapestry of notes, simple in form and exquisite in cooperation. They wove together like undulating waves, swelling and then sinking, only to rise again in splendour. Hearing his supple, preternatural voice was like allowing the spirit of Eru to spill into my ears and caress my mind, gentle as soft grass, firm as living rock.

For the first time that night, I slept soundly; no shadowed dreams troubled me. I could not tell for Elros, who always slept like a felled tree-trunk, unconscious to the world.

The next day the weather grew warmer, and Amon Ereb was cast into buttery sunshine, highlighting in great dark streaks the sharp shadows of its skeleton. The creepers on its grey walls, hitherto subjected to constant rain and hence soggy and disgruntled, quivered happily, gay as small elf-children.

I, for one, felt sticky and uncomfortable in the cotton clothes I had worn since the early morning, and it was now close to evening. Wiping my damp upper lip, I pulled my book back to me and resumed where I had left off, but my mind wandered. Elros was down at the stables, being taught horse-riding by a stable-boy he had some days ago befriended. I told him to ask a groom for more professional help, but he sniffed at me. I had shrugged my shoulders and let him go.

I read for another hour or so, and then slid off my chair, starting to feel bored. Running my fingers through my damp hair, I decided I would take a bath. "Elros can entertain himself for a good while when he gets back," I thought. Grabbing a fresh set of clothes, I skipped downstairs, taking two at a time and nearly colliding into a wall. I slowed down.

When I got to my destination, I saw the baths were mostly empty, and sighed in relief.

I was about to head to the usual secluded spot I bathed in with Elros when I glimpsed Maedhros – courtesy his singularly conspicuous hair – languidly soaking in a (mercifully murky) pool with his elbows resting at the edge, his hair clubbed tightly behind his head. I could see the scars of past battles, and also of his time in Angband, tracing a vile pattern over his chest and his arms. He seemed not to care; with his posture he looked like much like a sated wild cat, lazy and proud, possibly about to yawn and show its great teeth.

Arbitrarily, I recalled Maglor's tale of Maedhros' friendship with King Fingon, and pursed my lips. I had listened to the account with great attention, face in hands, as Maglor told of the cousins' trips in the great mountains, their hunting parties, their duets (I had started at the thought of Maedhros being able to _sing_), and their lengthy talks in the palace of Tirion. "Fingon may well have been our brother," Maglor had said, raising his eyes to the ceiling, eyes dazed. Then he smiled to himself. "I taught him to play the lyre, did you know? It took less time than I thought it would, for he had buttered fingers before I met him."

Sucking my teeth, suddenly too shy to go further, I turned, and would have rushed out had Maedhros not seen me and beckoned me with a finger. As I stood fidgeting before him he said in his wry drawl, "Why did you turn away?" Next to his left arm, I noticed, there was a small wooden box, along with a carelessly folded robe.

"There is no reason," I mumbled, avoiding his gaze. Maedhros tilted his head back, baring his chalk-white neck, revealing blue-green veins branching across it beneath the skin, like an old tree against a misty snow-scape. I could see his pulse, and this made me nervous, for I was aware that what kept him alive was this _blood, blood, blood._

He smirked, inclining his head to one side. It was a very awkward angle, reminiscent of a broken neck, and made my stomach stir. I wanted to leave.

"Tell me," he said smoothly, pulling his head back into place, "do you know how to play chess?"

I said I did not, though I had seen people playing it before in Sirion. They sat for hours on uncomfortable wooden chairs, staring and staring at the game like it held all the answers of Eä – which, obviously, it did not. It seemed a dreadful bore. Maedhros arched an eyebrow when I spoke so, and reached for the box nearby. The slender muscles in his shoulder and his arm flexed and clenched, rippling like waves, offering me a stark view of his fine anatomy. He had a bone-structure that most sculptors would give their front teeth to examine closely and then to attempt to mimic in stone.

He commanded, 'Sit," and I did so hastily, tucking my feet beneath my knees. He opened the box, revealing it to be a checkered board; several small wooden pieces fell out of it. He set the board between us and began to place the pieces, white on one side and brown on the other.

"I just had a game with a fellow soldier," he said slowly as he arranged the pieces, "but he was a terrible partner. I am hoping you will be better."

His tone was patronising, and I wondered if he was ribbing me, but kept my lips sealed as he placed the last piece home. Maedhros looked at me from beneath his lashes, resting his cheek in his hand in an almost predatory fashion. To this day I am certain he did it on purpose, just because he could. He said, "Do you at least know a few moves? None at all? Well, I suppose I must show you."

He twisted so that he was more comfortably seated; some of the water sloshed onto the cool slate floor. With great patience, he began to teach me. White moves first. The horse can be used cunningly. The king is the most important piece, though the queen is the most powerful.

Slowly, I began to learn. We played our first game, in which I was beaten within a few heartbeats. Maedhros laughed, a surprising, deep sound that seemed to come from far within his chest. He reset the board and said we could have another game. I was vanquished twice more before I began to get used to it. By then my brow was dotted with sweat, and Maedhros' hair had begun to slip out of its knot; it sprang away from his skull and frizzed around his thin face. He was a good partner, helpfully critical but not cynical, offering praise only when it was due, challenging but not aggressive. I felt an inexplicable pull towards him, as if clutched by gravity: a disgraceful, irrational sense of loyalty towards this bitter, hard-hearted man, this destroyer of my world.

I suddenly noticed he was scrutinising me in a frigid, calculating manner, as if I were some unpropitious artifact, and I chewed my lower lip, trying fiercely to concentrate on the game.

I was just about to take his queen and utter a cry of triumph when a groom rushed in the chamber, chattering agitatedly to Maedhros in Quenya - I could understand only 'horse' and 'pain' and 'boy', having memorised the translations in the library. In the wink of an eye Maedhros had hauled himself out of the bath and pulled his threadbare robe about himself, and was walking rapidly towards the arched exit with the groom. He looked over his shoulder and called, "Excuse me, Elrond," and then disappeared.

I sat gazing after them. Drawing a breath, I found I was in a vile mood, though nothing had been done to secure this. Maedhros' presence had always troubled me, from the time he had found us in Sirion.

He had forced us to walk before him, his callused, soiled hand on the scruff of my neck, as if I were an indisciplined pup, to his brother, who was perched on a stone by the steep cliffs, still and silent as a young tree. His face was turned away from us, focused on the frothing waves far below. Maedhros clutched my neck almost painfully. "Here," he called without preamble, and his voiced reached further than even my father's, "you can have these." I was given a little shake, and I wondered what _these_ meant, before I realised he was indicating my brother and me. Anger surged through my chest at such a reference, and I trembled.

Maglor turned very slowly, his gaze still pensive, as if unwilling to tear away from the rolling waters. His unruly black hair lashed back and forth with the sea-wind, at odds with his composure. When his eyes reached us, they widened slightly, and his bloodied lips pursed. The hand that grasped his longsword twitched. He held his brother's stare for an almost unbearably long time, during which I nearly began to sob, wishing I could run away. Beside me, Elros had dropped to his knees, shaking, eyes wild with grief and panic.

Maedhros exuded an overwhelming aura that forced the paler-willed to maintain a distance from him. For my brother and me, being this close to him was an almost unmatched ordeal. It was like standing near a ruby-hot furnace, whose impassioned heat would melt the skin off your flesh if you did not move away quickly.

I blinked and shook my head, slipping back to reality, back to the steamy baths of Amon Ereb. Looking at the abandoned game, strewn with a scant few pieces, my heart twanged. I swung my clothes over my shoulder and got up, and had only just reached the entrance when I met Elros.

"Elrond!" he said, beaming. His hair looked like a thicket of shrubs, his cheeks raspberry-tinged from the cold outside. His clothes were filthy, speckled with faded brown spots - he had probably fallen in the mud. I noticed that he was favouring one foot slightly, but was unable to think about it because he immediately continued, "It was so much fun! I had the most wonderful time, and my mare was so beautiful – "

"You are going for a bath?" I interrupted. He nodded and raised his brows. "You look like you could use one yourself - why, you stayed inside all day and you are sweating so heavily! What were you doing? Climbing the walls?" He jerked his chin towards the ceiling.

I opened my mouth and shut it, wondering how to explain that I had found Maedhros, naked, in a pool, and that he had amiably – or, as amiably as Maedhros Fëanorion could manage – asked me to play chess with him.

"Never mind," I said. "Come, I will join you."

We went to our pool near the corner, discarded our clothes, and sank in, sighing in happiness as we felt the filth wash off us. I was mentally tired from the game, and wanted rest and silence, and ideally also a hot cup of chamomile tea with the little flowers swirling at the bottom. At the very least, I would have liked to _think_ about these things, but Elros kept talking about how very beautiful his pony was, and how nice the stable-boy was, and how prettily the women had giggled while watching him, that it took a commendable effort to stop my hand from clamping over his flapping mouth.

We returned to our chamber, and Elros, excited from his earlier rigorous exercise, paced restlessly around the room, a broad smile on his face, while I sat against the pillows on our bed. Eventually, he came to my side and plumped down, massaging his left ankle.

"Did you hurt yourself?" I asked suspiciously, and not a little wearily.

Elros shrugged, peeling off his stocking; his ankle was swollen and slightly pink. I scowled, irritated at his obliviousness. "What have you done now? Must I always watch your back so that you do not break it?"

He ignored me in that infuriating manner and muttered, "I must have twisted it."

"Oh, hang it!" I exploded, briefly wondering with surprise where I had picked up such language. It was probably from Agorael or the soldiers. "Confound you and your tendencies, Elros! I am not disturbing Maglor again for help."

My brother's eyes were narrowed. "Did you eat soot for breakfast today, Elrond?" he asked caustically.

I stood up resolutely, sighing. "I will call for a healer."

He returned loudly, making me cringe, "Perhaps it will go away."

"We do not know that; it might get worse. Wait here, and do not move."

I had been to the infirmary only once before, when Maglor showed it to me during one of his tours. The entry was curtained off by a threadbare cloth that reeked of mothballs, yet when I went in, motley, sickening smells of herbs and of ointments pervaded my nostrils. The room was long and rectangular, akin to a large prison cell, with a crooked slate floor. A few haggard men reclined on the coarse beds; two of them glanced at me with disinterested expressions, like animals briefly interrupted at a particularly lavish meal, and then turned their eyes away.

Ignoring them, I approached a woman who was sitting at a broad desk, poring over an impractically thick book with an impractically heavy magnifying glass. She raised her small round head when I cleared my throat, the glass still at her eye, so that the rolling organ was enlarged several times and I could see the flecks of blue in her watery grey iris. "May I help you?" she asked politely, though somewhat condescendingly.

I told her of my brother's condition, and she reluctantly rose from her desk. "Where is he?" she said.

I gave her directions, and she left the room to fetch Elros. When she came back in a few minutes, she was letting my limping brother lean against her - he could barely set his foot down.

"You'll have to stay in bed for a couple of days, little master," said the healer as she helped him, groaning, into a bed near the corner. "It was silly of you to keep on riding when you had twisted your foot."

Elros gazed at his lap, abashed and a little annoyed. I went over to him, pulling up a wicker chair from near the window and sitting down, while the healer got a clay pot of strong-smelling medicine and some ice wrapped in cloth. Elros winced and pressed his lips together as she applied the latter on his ankle. "Hold it there for a while," she said. "I will come back in a couple of minutes." She disappeared through an arched doorway that led into another room.

I sighed and leaned back in my chair. "You are impetuous, Elros," I said. "And we have to hand work tomorrow to our tutor. Have you finished it?"

"No," he replied, looking a little awkward holding the bag of ice to his ankle; water was beginning to trickle down on the sheets, and he idly flicked it off.

"I have only done half. Shall I get our books here? We can finish it."

"Perhaps later."

"Well, _I_ would like to get it over with. Give me a moment."

I dashed out before he could protest, up to our chamber. Picking up both our books (they were quite thin) from the desks, I exited. As I was trundling precariously down the serpentine staircase, I saw, quite by accident, Maedhros slip quietly into the hallway that led to Maglor's chamber. I hesitated, pursing my dry lips, then stealthily followed, wondering at his stern expression. At this point I was familiar with my own unhealthy inquisitiveness, and no longer attempted to curb this habit, as I knew little could work against it.

Once I was sure Maedhros had gone to his brother's room and had shut the door, I crept into the corridor and pressed an ear against the wood. At first, I could hear only muffled murmurs, buzzing like persistent, lazy bees. Then, all of a sudden, Maedhros' voice burst out, making me start and flinch away: "You know exactly what I mean, Maglor!"

A low voice, this time Maglor's. I heard footsteps advance rapidly towards the door, and I scurried back, but my anxiety was unfounded: they receded. Someone was pacing. Trying to calm my hammering heart, I drew closer once more, swallowing. Again I heard the footsteps, and again their sound grew dim. It was like a perilous game of trying to remain hidden when you could not get what you wanted by doing so.

Again, Maedhros spoke: "I met Elrond today in the baths." I grew tense at the use of my name. What was he saying about me? My ears must have adjusted to the feeble sounds, for I heard Maglor reply, "Yes?"

"It appears to me, brother, that the princes of Sirion are becoming a bit _too_ comfortable in our humble, dark halls." I dropped my gaze. Comfortable? To be sure, Elros and I had grown familiar with Amon Ereb's grey walls and its strange denizens. It had not occurred to me that I was _comfortable_, though perhaps there was some truth in his words.

The sound of a chair creaking. It was hideous, akin to the screech of nails on a board. "Was it not your idea to bring them here?" Now Maglor was angry; his voice was tight and accusing.

"I spoke in Sirion out of frustration or sarcasm; probably both. I certainly did not expect you to _assent; _perhaps I placed too great a faith in your intellect. Did you do so only because of your guilt? If you did not aid me in Doriath – "

A fist or something heavy slammed down on a desk, making it rattle, and Maglor hissed, "_Shut up_." His voice was so suffused with detestation, so unlike his usual, agreeable tone, that for a moment I thought there was a third person in the room who had spoken. He continued, "Do not mock me."

"You," came Maedhros' cold reply, "are the one who mocks yourself, dear brother." Then he turned acerbic. "For you have the love of your soldiers and of me, and perhaps now also those elflings who will one day grow tall enough – and wise enough – to put us to sleep. That is, if we survive that long." There was a pause. "Do you wish to torment them to the end of their days?"

What, I thought, in heaven's name was he talking about? Gritting my teeth, and steeling myself for a base act, I stooped and placed my eye at the keyhole.

It was like looking through a binocular at a stage that was far away, set for an exquisite drama. The Fëanorionnath were situated close enough together for me to see both of them clearly. Maglor was seated on a chair, his fist still shaking on the desk. He was breathing heavily and not looking at his brother, who was standing beside him, fingers clutching the back of the chair, jaw taut as an arched bowstring. A fire, lit somewhere nearby, was the only source of light, and threw onto their still figures a ghastly orange glare.

At length, Maedhros said, puncturing the heavily pregnant silence, creating an almost obscene effect, "Your mind is so filled with hatred that it festers like a rotten wound and infects your thoughts, which flow through your very limbs like noxious pus. I do not envy you." Then he stepped away, towards the foot of the bed, sat down cross-legged on the floor, and folded his arms across his chest, his back resting against the chest of clothes. He sighed deeply through his nose and closed his eyes. "Wake me when you are done mourning."

* * *

><p>"That one is not in our course," said Elros, furrowing his brow and peering at the title of the book I was reading. He was reclining in his bed, his foot propped on two pillows.<p>

"That is correct. We have not reached here yet." I flipped the book and showed him the page I was on. "It is about the rebellion of the Noldor. This is just an abridged copy, though." I had, after my eavesdropping, become keenly interested in the topic, and had retrieved from our chamber this history book. It rendered me bemused, but luckily not sullen or defiant.

Elros looked suspicious. It did not suit him. "Is it any different to what we were told at home?"

I contemplated his question, tracing my hand across the fine, slightly faded letters. "No," I said slowly, "but the reasons seem more complicated."

"Like what?"

"I cannot tell you so quickly, Elros."

"Well," he returned, "give it here."

I hesitated, then put it in his hands. He immediately proceeded to peruse the index. The healer came back in again and put an earthen cup of tea on the bedside table, then returned to her desk. Elros read on. At length I have up any hope of getting my book back, and picked up my volume of numerals. "I will finish my work, then," I said indignantly.

"You do that," Elros mumbled, half-lost in the book's contents already. Taking off my sandals, I put my feet on the bed and began to read. Whenever I looked up, my brother's face seemed grow darker, until I felt obliged to ask him what was wrong. "Nothing," he replied flatly, placing the book down on his lap. His hair had come loose of its band, and some of it fell over his forehead in a loop. I reached out to push it back, but he slapped my hand away.

"What is the matter with you?" I asked, surprised at his abruptness.

Elros wiped his nose and ignored me. I could not get a word of explanation out of him. When our dinner was brought to us, he merely picked at his bread, scowling. "Come," I said in a poor attempt at humour, "If you do not eat, I will finish the brie, and you will be sorry."

He shrugged and looked away from his food. I considered pressing him, but then decided against it and piled the cheese from the tray onto my plate. "Do as you wish, Elros."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

I could smell the nearing summer. The days had begun to lengthen, and the heavy carpet of clouds over the hill grew thin and flimsy, diminishing the dreary, smoke-like barrier between earth and heaven; the shadow that clung to the little forest seemed to lift. The rain, while still persistent, became a mist, caressing the fort and settling over leaf and bough in a pale glimmer.

I had no idea what Maglor was plotting (Maedhros' words had intrigued me, and buzzed around my mind like a swarm of restless insects) – if indeed he was doing such a thing at all – and, in order to try to coax any small morsel of information from him, began to spend an unsettling amount of time with him. I had to admit it was enjoyable in a childish, thrilling manner, if not entirely pleasant. And so I did not complain.

We had taken to sitting together in the library, not always facing each other, but doing our work in silence. When he was not studying the languages of Beleriand (he spoke and wrote several of them fluently), he wrote music, his fingers flying across the page with the ease of a seasoned minstrel. He never made corrections or changes; he did not have to. His work was meticulous, well-spaced, and even pleasant to look at. It was not excessively beautiful, comparable to the saccharine manner advisors and hawkers sometimes speak in, but perpendicular and businesslike, though he finished with a flourish. "I want," he said, "to be able to read my work when I look at it again. I cannot _abide_ haphazard handwriting." I blushed, for my own hand was sloppy and less-than-readable and earned me disapproving looks from my other tutor, Tuilin.

We did not only study together; sometimes, when the weather was mild, we took walks around the fortress. Maglor had a powerful stride that befitted a commander of Noldorin forces, but he also moved with a grace that complemented his willowy, flexible body - somehow he combined beauty with strength, artistic loveliness with practicality; it baffled me. He often deliberately had to slow himself to allow me to keep up, and I would scowl indignantly at this small act of charity. He responded to me with sparsely veiled amusement, as would a father to his excitable son, which served only to heighten my annoyance.

On one occasion during our strolls, I lost my balance thanks to a broken sandal and fell headlong into a rose-bush in the back garden, and emerged, bruised and scratched, on all fours like an animal. Maglor cast me a partially exasperated, partially entertained look, and offered me a hand. I frowned at it, hesitant. Why did it have to be so large and rough, like the protective hand one would want on a father? He was not my father. I did not want him to be my father. My father had the same hands, but I seldom felt them. He –

"You do not have to take it," Maglor said agreeably, interrupting my thoughts, and began to withdraw it. Steadfastly, I quickly grasped his fingers and, without breaking my gaze from his, allowed him to pull me up. He misjudged my weight and for a moment had my feet dangling an inch from the ground. "Oh dear," he said. "It seems as if you need to be fed more!"

Unfortunately, that day seemed intent on ridiculing us, for only minutes later my cursed sandal gave way again, and I stumbled with a yelp, this time crashing into Maglor, who was crouching in front of me, absently fondling a marsh bellflower by a small, ornamental pond. There was a surprised '_woah__!_' and a tremendous splash, and the next moment we were on our bottoms, drenched in cold water and speckled with algae, gaping stupidly at each other. There was a silence.

A large, fat toad, looking like some sort of herald with its white stripes, paddled by and croaked at us haughtily.

As if that were a cue, we flung back our heads and roared with laughter – loud enough to startle a pair of lovebirds in a nearby tree – till I thought one of us would fracture a rib from the convulsions of our chests. At length Maglor said, struggling to his feet and pulling stands of hair from his chin, "I am never walking with you again, Elrond! A plague on your talent for trouble!"

Before I could stop myself, I returned thoughtlessly, "It is not my fault; whenever I am around you, the heavens decide to punish me."

He averted his eyes and pursed his lips, now looking pathetic in addition to bedraggled, and I immediately regretted my words. I scrambled awkwardly out of the pond and squeezed the water from my tunic, while Maglor stepped onto the grass, took off his sopping shoes and slapped them together. Then we muttered hasty goodbyes and parted, shivering. I felt strange as I advanced through the fort, as though in a deep dream. My footsteps echoed softly: _tup, tup, tup_. Once in my chamber, I changed my clothes and collapsed on my back on the bed, and remembered Maglor's laughing face: corners of his eyes crinkled like tissue, a little dimple in one flushed cheek. Boyish, careless, exposed. A lie.

After that day, I did not see him for a few weeks, for he went on rounds to hunt Orcs, and for a time our walks ceased abruptly, like an unfinished sentence cut short. I felt horribly listless, and Maedhros did not play chess with me again – he seemed very busy, and did not even grunt a greeting to me if he passed me in the narrow hallways.

My brother, despite the change in weather, remained gloomy and sullen. He would read the book I had given him over and over again, his chin in his hand and his lips pressed tightly together. He spoke little to me and less to Maedhros, and spent more and more time at the kennels and the stables. I kept asking him what was wrong, but he would shake his head and sigh irritably, as if I were too foolish for words.

On a lazy afternoon we were sitting in our chamber, having a lesson with Tuilin. I had been daydreaming, for I found the lesson unusually boring, when Elros suddenly looked up, a hard look in his eye. "May I ask a question?" he said, with barely concealed impatience. Tuilin raised her eyebrows and nodded, looking sceptical. She was a dark, thin woman with birdlike features who for some reason almost always wore black, as if she were perpetually in mourning.

"Why did you all follow Fëanor into exile? Was it not rather..." Elros narrowed his eyes insolently. "Idiotic?" he finished pointedly. I gaped at him. A hundred curses were running through my mind, but I was too shocked to voice them.

Tuilin's head snapped up, and her posture seemed to become even more rigid than it was. "You know nothing of the matter, Elros," she said sternly. "And you do not speak to your tutors that way."

"Why not?" he asked. "After all, if it were not for you, no one would be in this fiasco you have all created!"

I looked on, horrified, as Tuilin got up from her seat, her eyes blazing. "If we did not come here," she replied, her voice tight, "you would never have been born." She was breathing heavily, flushed in the cheeks. Her dignified, matronly composure was crumbling.

"Perhaps," said Elros, averting his eyes, "I would have preferred it that way. It is because of you that the whole of Beleriand is practically shattered."

"We are not evil," said Tuilin firmly, but her tone was rising.

"Then why," Elros suddenly cried, "did you kill so many people?"

I had shrunken into my seat, clutching my pen so hard it snapped. Guilt flooded through me; this was my fault. I should never have given Elros that book, even if he was right in saying the Noldor had been foolish.

As if startled into abashment from the sound of my snapping quill, Elros left his chair and made for the door, only to find the entry blocked by Maglor, who had probably been present for a few moments already. Despite the mild day, he was clad in a dark tunic that was buttoned to his throat, and wore fingerless gloves, as if he were hiding behind his clothes.

"Apologise," he said, putting his hands into his trouser-pockets and narrowing his eyes, which were hard as flints. Elros said nothing, gazing stubbornly at the ground. "I said apologise, Elros." Maglor's voice was flat and cool, and left no room for disobedience. I do not know how brave my brother was feeling at that moment, because Maglor was terrible in his composed anger. He seemed to grow taller than he already was. Forbidding, imposing like a god, not a mere elf.

"I will not," said Elros abruptly, looking Maglor square in the eye. I had to admire my brother's foolish valour. In my seat I felt shamefuly safe from the lord's – why did I so easily forget he was a lord? – wrath. "I will not, until she answers my question."

"She has a name," Maglor returned, more gently now. His shoulders relaxed. "And there is a way of speaking to your elders, much more your teachers."

"I want an answer," Elros insisted, twisting his face in determination. I looked on, agape, vaguely wondering how much trouble we would get into for this. "I am under no obligation to speak politely to people like you. Kinslayers. Murderers. _Thieves_." Maglor winced, and I knew my brother's words had cut deeply. "Why did you betray Olwë's people?"

"You were not there," Maglor said, dropping his voice. He seemed suddenly to shrink from a god to a mere Man, weary and bent with the weight of years. I was amazed at the abrupt transformation, this backward metamorphosis, and unwanted pity filled my heart. Surely, I thought, he wanted someone to stand by his side, to spport him. Yet his pride was ample, and I knew he would have taken no help if offered. "You did not hear my father's words. You did not hear their power."

Tuilin interrupted, "My lord! Do not waste your breath. He will not understand – "

"Patience, Tuilin," said Maglor, raising a hand. He returned his attention to Elros. "You are right. We were wrong. Each of us had a choice, and we made it. It would be folly to blame only my father, or his mother."

"You chose some cheap jewels over your people and your kin," returned Elros, his voice suddenly breaking. His face crumpled. "Just like our parents." With that, he rubbed his eyes fiercely and charged past Maglor, who seemed too shocked to move.

Too late, Maglor turned round and called, "Elros! Come back here!" But my brother had disappeared down the stairs.

There was a thick, strained silence. I felt a lump in my throat, and found it difficult to breathe. I was sitting awkwardly, my foot jammed behind a leg of my chair and my back uncomfortably curled, yet I did not want to move. Maglor took a deep breath and pressed a hand to his forehead, wiping away a bead of sweat at his temple. "Tuilin," he said quietly, "help me find him."

With her head held high, Tuilin swept past him through the door, her skirts stirring behind her. Maglor remained motionless for a while, then turned his head and looked oddly at me with his fey dark eyes. I was trembling, terribly upset, and his gesture did nothing to ease my discomfort. At length, after pursing his lips, he turned his heel and went away, leaving me alone in the large chamber. A breeze blew through the open window, fluttering the linen curtains and ruffling the papers on the desks. I looked at the abandoned books and parchments and felt my breath catch, then dropped my broken quill to the ground and began to sob.

I cried for a long while, my face in my hands, smelling the salt of my own tears, feeling them sting my eyes. I quivered and shook like a dead leaf hanging off a bare branch in the winter winds. Eventually, when my strength was nearly drained, I crawled into bed and pulled the furs over my skull, shutting myself off from the world. I yearned for Elros or Maglor to come in, but neither did, and was reminded of the times when I would wait and wait for my father to come to my bed at night when he was at Sirion, to tell me a story or sing me a song, but he never would; he stayed with his sailor friends or talked with Mother. Did he know where I was now? Suddenly, I doubted he cared. But that was ridiculous, was it not? Did not all fathers love their children? Did they not all want to tell their sons bedtime stories and toss them in the air like leather balls and sit them atop their broad, strong shoulders? Were the stories I'd heard wrong, then? Were they erroneous?

I stopped crying, and instead lay silently beneath the furs, scratching the bedsheets with a nail, too tired to even think anymore. The Sun dipped in the sky, and the chamber was cast into shadows.

Someone came in a few hours later to bring food, but I did not touch it. I did not even get out of bed. Instead, I lay on the mattress, alternating between covering my head and staring at the grey ceiling. My stomach was empty, but I had not the will to eat. I felt stiff, miserable and lonely, and by the time I was considering rolling out of bed, night had thrown its black cloak over the heavens.

Eventually, I heard the door slowly creak open. Someone came into the room, and I felt the furs across my knees stretch tautly. A hand landed gently on my shoulder. "Elrond." A soft voice. Maglor. I did not reply. When he did not say more I opened my eyes and looked up at him, wincing a little at the glare of the orange torchlight from the doorway. He had cast his gaze to his lap, and I could dimly discern his unkempt hair, his proud, sharp nose. He turned his head and met my gaze, and I saw that his eyes were raw, if not quite red. Embarrassed, I quickly looked away.

"Elrond," Maglor repeated, shifting his hand to my head, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. Tears pricked my eyes again, and I screwed them shut tightly, hissing. "Oh, Elrond," I heard Maglor say with regret, "I am so sorry. Your brother was right." The hand was removed, and I felt cold, as if someone had suddenly flung open the windows. "I will not ask you to forgive me."

"I hate you."

"That is reasonable."

"I wish you were dead. How I _hate_ you."

A pause. "That, too, is reasonable."

_I want to plunge a dagger in your back and feel the hot blood spurt down my fingers. I want to hear you scream the same way the men at Sirion screamed. I want you to love me and care for me. _"And I want to die because I cannot have both."

"What?" he asked sharply. He seemed flummoxed.

I had spoken aloud, I realised.

Maglor induced in me a feeling of comfort, even if that comfort came with heady, obsessive guilt; after all, I was not his son. I thought of my real father, who was so far away. I was sick of hating Maglor. How could I hate him, truly hate him, when he fed me, clothed me, offered me a home and treated me with courtesy? "You do not really want to die, do you?" There was worry in his voice.

My head throbbed, and I groaned, burying my face in my pillow, not answering him. Maglor rubbed circles on my back and smoothed my hair. "You have not eaten all day," he murmured. "Maedhros and I have lit a fire out on a terrace, and are roasting meat. Come join us."

The thought of food made me want to throw up, but I knew Maglor would harry me till I joined him anyway. I said in a small voice, "Where is Elros?"

"Down at the kennels. He has already eaten with Agorael."

"Why did you not bring him back?"

He paused. "I did not feel I had a right. I am his keeper, not his father, and anyway he needed to think. If he takes too long, Agorael will bring him up."

Maglor stood up and pulled the furs off me, earning an indignant 'hey!'. "Just a bite," he said, leaving. I followed him, still sulking, outside. By the time we reached the terrace I wished I had brought a cloak, for it was cool outside. But a merry fire was lit near the parapet, and Maedhros was seated near it on a wicker chair, turning mutton over the flames. A pungent smell of burning meat filled my nostrils. There was only one more chair, and Maglor offered it to be, but I declined. He sat down and held out his arms in a welcoming fashion, and when I did not move he pulled me onto his lap. Inclining his head, he gave me a smile and ruffled my hair. His warmth ensconced me. His gesture said, "You and me. Elrond and Maglor. Our little world that none can share." Shyly, my heart swelled, and he wound an arm about me and drew me close.

Maedhros said at length,"Look at what the cat dragged in. You both look awful."

"As do you, brother mine," Maglor replied. The next moment I was offered a plateful of cooked mutton with shredded, steamed cabbage and a wedge of lime. I turned away from it, disliking the smell.

"Tush, Maglor," said Maedhros with hauteur. "Do you really think he is going to eat that when he looks so ill? Why, you could put him in a field of shamrocks, naked, and he would blend right in."

"I am not sending him to bed without dinner," was the sharp reply.

Maedhros leaned sideways and picked something up, and then held it out to me. "He will feel better with this." It was a small plate with half a blackberry tart. It did not have much of a smell, and looked good, too. I accepted it and began to eat, and soon felt the better for it. My headache and fatigue disappeared, and afterwards I managed to finish almost all of the meat. Setting down my plate, I leaned against Maglor.

The brothers had begun to talk in Quenya in low voices. Both had seemed to forget my presence, though I was still in Maglor's arms. I listened idly, not understanding a word, shifting every now and again to make myself comfortable. It must have been very late; I closed my eyes, intending to drift to sleep, and yawned.

All of a sudden I heard a gasp, and snapped my head up. Maedhros had leapt out of his seat and was staring open-mouthed at the sky, and I felt Maglor's grip on me tighten. I squirmed, looking up and trying to see what the brothers were gazing at.

What I beheld was a large, bright star that seemed to dim the others around it with its powerful light. It shone like a beacon in the sky, lovely and untouchable. As I looked upon it, I felt my heart fill with fresh energy and high hope - though why or for what, I did not know.

Maedhros was shaking his head, his eyes round with awe, and I would have laughed if I hadn't felt something was wrong. "Look, brother," he said, his voice almost childlike in its reverence. "Surely that is a Silmaril that shines now in the West?" He paused. "Eärendil. It has to be."

I started and looked at the star with renewed wonder. My father! He was a light in the sky! How on earth did he get there? My stomach was turning somersaults. Then I swallowed. Now I knew he would never come back, no matter how hard I prayed or wished. My eyes were dry, though I felt I should weep.

Maglor's gaze were fixed on the star as well, but they shone with clarity, not despair. Slowly, he pulled his eyes to Maedhros, and the corners of his lips were curled in a small smile that could have been triumphant. "If it be truly the Silmaril which we saw cast into the sea that rises again by the power of the Valar," he said, "then let us be glad; for its glory is seen now by many, and is yet secure from all evil."

And I let my eyes fall shut.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Had anyone in Sirion asked me if I thought I would spend the majority of my adolescence in my enemy's stronghold, I would have laughed in his face and declared him insane. Yet it is perhaps often the way of things that nothing ever turns out quite as you had planned, for good or ill. Certainly my proud and famous father would not have looked upon my crumbling home – for home it grew to be – with anything other than horror, or scorn, at the very least. As to my mother – she was always mild-mannered, and would likely force a smile to hide her discomfort. Yet, for all I cared at the time, they could sing their laments to the evening skies for the rest of their days. My affections were reserved for the eccentric, though mostly kind, denizens of Amon Ereb. I could count the number of particularly unpleasant experiences I had there on one hand, and hoped to keep it that way for many years to come.

Sirion I had not forgotten, but its memory I tucked away in the back of my mind, and it seldom came to consciousness without my will. I'll admit my dreams were every so often stained with crimson – as they still are, and in fact they are more frequent now – and if I, for my own moral code, could not forgive the Fëanorian brothers, I was otherwise willing to understand them, though little then was left to understand, or so I felt. But I will return to that later, else I may end up spewing more words than I ought.

I became an apprentice with the healers, and never regretted my decision, though I continued my studies in Quenya and other languages, and also in poetry; my days were often spent with my nose poking into a book, with the result of my fingers being stained pale yellow. I enjoyed eating in the Great Hall – Elros and I were now too old to always take meals in our rooms, and basic propriety demanded we not shut ourselves away – and could name at least five score people by the sound of their voices alone. Sometimes, thanks to my obsessive study sessions, I would get so engrossed in my work I would forget to eat, and then would trundle down into the kitchens to fix myself a miserable meal of stale bread and vegetables. If I was lucky, one of the cooks would still be there, washing the dishes or scrubbing the floor, and I would beg him to make me a small, hot meal since I'd be too tired to do it myself.

One overcast morning in the early summer I came bounding down the stairs into the courtyard in order to locate my elusive brother, and was stopped several times on the way by people who offered me a shake of the hand or a clap on the back in congratulations.

"Ho-ho! You'll be there tomorrow, eh, Master Elrond?" laughed Agorael, wiping his grimy hands on a drab kerchief, then shaking me so roughly by the shoulders I'd have tumbled down the stairs were it not for his grip on me. "Bit of a pity if you miss your own begetting day, staying locked up in your chamber and all?"

"Hardly," I replied, offering a grin. "I may love my books, but not more than my begetting day celebration."

I was to be eight-and-twenty on the morrow, almost fully-grown as far as anyone could see; my maturation had been a surprise, what with everyone being unfamiliar with Half-elves, and by the time I was eighteen you could have mistaken me for an adolescent human. "If you are asking me to explain this, Elrond," Maglor had told me tiredly, scrutinising me closely from head to toes and back again, "you are going to be disappointed. But you are healthy, and growing tall, and I suppose that is what matters." He had sounded slightly unsure of himself, and there was a crease in his brow.

After I escaped Agorael, I found Elros stretched out lazily on a stack of hay outside the kennels. His eyes were closed, and one hand lay on his chest. He seemed to be in the blissful midst of sleep. "You ill-mannered lout. Do you mind terribly acting like the revered prince you are?" I said, reaching up and yanking his hair, contradicting my own words. His response was as I hoped: he squealed, cursed fantastically – earning a roar of good-natured laughter from a cluster of ellyn nearby – and fell off the hay, landing heavily on his side but jumping up immediately. I raised my eyebrows and said, "Hardy rogue. But I am disappointed in myself; next time I will try harder."

"Elrond!" he complained, rubbing his arm. Unwittingly I winced at his voice. It had cracked when he was seventeen, and for the next few years he walked about with a face red from embarrassment, sounding like he had gravel stuffed down his throat. Three summers ago it finally grew smooth and deepened, and acquired a resonant quality not unlike our father's. Later he would make a fine, disciplined commander, but now, he was as much of a brat as you could have wished to avoid. "Confound you! What do you want?"

"I want you to get dressed, for we have a training session with the famed lords of Amon Ereb today." We had begun to learn the art of the sword and the bow at the age of ten, and had since maintained a rigorous weekly schedule of physical activity. Exquisite purple bruises in the most extraordinary places had become a banal fact for us, and we bore them much the same as we bore the tiresome flies that buzzed about our ears in the hot season.

Elros massaged his scalp liberally. He had taken to wearing his hair short, in the manner of the Secondborn, so that it scarcely brushed the tops of his shoulders. It was matted and dirty now, and he would have to wash it later. When clean, it framed his sharp-featured face well, highlighting his high cheekbones and his large, subtly slanted eyes. I had chosen to keep my own hair long, and it touched the small of my back even when I wore a plait; I was horrified at the thought of cutting it. My brother periodically accused me of vanity, but I thought 'dignity' was a better term. What self-respecting elf, I thought, walked about with his hair cut off, like some shamed thrall?

"When do we have to meet them?" Elros asked me, reaching down to straighten his sandal, which had loosened from the fall. His bare arms were slender, but rippled with muscle; he loved all manner of fighting and riding. For all I know, he never did get over the fact that I was better at swordsmanship, even when I worked less hard at it than did he.

"Half an hour," I replied. "And, for pity's sake, do not sulk if I beat you." I dodged a swift kick aimed at my shin and bolted up the stairs, laughing. Once in my room I quickly changed my clothes and brought out my sword from my cabinet. It had been made by one of the blacksmiths some years ago, and was light and tough; it glittered like Moonlight on water. I would not admit it, but at the time I loved wielding a blade almost as much as I loved studying.

When I reached the clearing in the south where our training sessions usually took place, I saw that my brother, the Fëanorians, and a few other people were already present. Elros had donned his leather armour, and was leaning against a wall. Maedhros stepped forward and said, "Warm up, both of you. Elros, you will be first, against Aeglir."

Aeglir was one of the younger soldiers; his hair was tucked into a knot behind his head, and he grinned and nodded at my brother, who smirked in return, as a friendly challenge. When we had finished stretching, I stood back, and the sparring started. We used wooden swords while fighting each other, and they made a loud clacking noise every time they met.

"Stop looking at your wrist, Elros," Maglor called. He was watching with sharp eyes, his arms folded and his unbound hair stirring in the breeze. I never saw him so serious as when he was fighting or playing the harp. One may not have expected the former; my first impression of him was that he could not possibly hold his own in battle. Later I learned, to my surprise, that he could wield a war-hammer with rather extraordinary skill. Not the small one that you could mistake for a kitchen tool, but the great hefty sort that looked like it could smash a young tree in half. Maglor danced with it in his hand as if he were a ribbon. I myself felt like a lumbering fool when I tried to swing it, and my first attempt at using one ended with two broken toes.

All of a sudden I caught sight of a young, fair-haired elleth staring at Maglor shyly and hopefully. I recognised her; often I would find her doing this, though he rarely seemed to notice her. Even so, I thought she was rather pretty, if not a bit insipid; if she read more she might have been able to keep up with him.

"Eyes over there, Elrond," Maglor uttered sharply, gesturing at the sparring youths, but his look said, "What is wrong with you today?" I felt my cheeks go pink, and returned my gaze to the match. Aeglir was winning, but only by a hair's breadth – my brother was fighting bravely. When neither showed any signs of backing down, Maedhros called for a halt and nodded his praise.

By the time the session was over, I was covered in sweat and panting heavily. I had fought four men, one of them my brother, who had managed to knock me to the ground. "Ha!" he cried. "There you go, Elrond! That is what you get for being a braggart." I brushed him off, thinking little of it, and stood up. Stripping off my armour I ambled over to Agorael, who had been watching us closely.

"What did you think?" I asked him.

"I think you're pretty good," he replied, "though you need a bit of fine-tuning. I suggest you ask Lord Maedhros for some advice. Then again, I'm just a keeper; I don't know much of fighting and all, if you'll pardon me."

I threw a look at the elleth I had noticed earlier, and said, "Do you know who that is?"

Agorael arched an eyebrow. "Ah, so you've noticed, too. She's some attendant who works in the scullery. Poor thing's wasting her time, and she knows it."

At that I laughed. "Why do you say that? Because she is too young? Personally, I think a few hundred years is old enough." It was a joke, and a poor one, but Agorael took me seriously.

"No," he said. "Lord Maglor is not that sort of person. You'd have much of a lip to say so, Master Elrond," he added with surprising earnestness. He almost looked offended, mouth drawn in a funny little pout, and I could not hide a grin.

"What is wrong with finding a wife?" I said. "It is no crime. I know we are in the middle of a war, Agorael, but really, I think Maglor really does need a woman. He has been acting like a crab lately, and marriage might do him good."

Agorael peered at me closely, as might a botanist at a particularly fantastic, though odd, flower. "But," he said, "Master Elrond! Why would he? He is already married."

I scoffed, running my hands through my damp hair, massaging my scalp. "Oh, spare me, Agorael. I know he loves his music and his poetry, but there is a limit, you know. Music cannot make up for love; you know this well." My smile faded when I saw Agorael flush red, as if someone had stuffed a centipede down his trousers - or perhaps as if he was embarrassed.

"Agorael. Were you being serious?" I asked slowly. Agorael sighed and rubbed his temples. "I talk too much," he muttered. "Fool, fool, fool! That's what I am. Of the very highest order!"

"Agorael!"

"For pity's sake, Elrond," he pleaded, averting his eyes, "don't dwell on it, and don't say I told you if you do."

"Wait a moment!" I cried. But Agorael was walking away, rubbing the back of his neck.

Stunned, I stood still for a time, the noise around me a buzz in my ears. Maglor had always been a private person, but surely, I thought, a secret he told a kennel master could have been also whispered to me? I would have felt, with the amount of time I spent with him, I knew every musing or desire that played and turned in his fey mind.

I glanced at Maglor, who was talking with an elf who I vaguely recognised as one of the guards. Some moments ago he'd been grave and stern, but, training session over, he spoke animatedly, gesticulating with his long fingers. "...and then he said, dead chuffed, _Oh, I think I put too much pudding on my plate_, as if he had forgotten he had five children and a wife at the table!" They brayed with laughter, clapping each other on the arms. Maedhros, who was nearby, cringed, grasped his brother's shoulder and muttered something closely in his ear. Maglor quietened, but was still tittering, eyes cast abashedly down.

Someone tapped the side of my skull. Elros. "Quit dreaming and come to the baths," he said. "You can ponder your studies on anatomy all you like there." He skipped away before I could reply. I did not follow. Slowly, people left, draining out of the area, chattering as if they hadn't a care in the world. Maglor seemed not to notice that I remained, and disappeared with his brother. My mood bubbled, grew blacker with every passing moment. The sky darkened with gathered clouds. Then the heavens burst open and drenched everything beneath it with silver-grey rainwater.

_Patter, patter, patter, patter. _Monotonous. On the slate roofs, on the ground, sliding down my temples and creeping down my neck. Soaking in through my clothes. I did not shiver. It was not very cold.

_Maglor._

I wiped my nose and tried to force down the hurt that spread through my chest. Why not me? I tried to halt my tumbling thoughts, but they rolled on with a will of their own like rocks kicked from a mountainside. At that age, I suppose, one finds it difficult to find agreeable anything that does not fit one's idea of immaculate. "Stop being irrational," I told myself, aloud, with no one to hear but the wind. "He is under no obligation to share with you every secret of his under the Sun." I stuck out my chin in defiance, feeling my lip quiver like the strings of a strummed harp. _You and me. Elrond and Maglor. _

I pressed a hand to my brow, shook my head as if I'd been underwater, and trundled inside. Now the cold, which had been lurking amongst the stones, leaped out at me and sank its teeth into my bare arms. I was sorely tempted to scream, "Someone light a fire!" but knew no one would in this season, just for my sake, and so moodily went on my way.

I had planned to huddle in my small, dank chamber with my books for the rest of the day, but instead found myself advancing towards Maglor's room. He yanked opened his door before I could knock – perhaps he was on his way out – and his brows lifted in surprise. "Elrond!" he said, running his gaze over me. "Wha – what were you doing in the rain? Come inside this instant!" Grasping my wrist he pulled me into his chamber. "No towel," he muttered, looking around, then patting his trousers. "A handkerchief will not do." He tutted, then, as if on impulse, pulled off his tunic, dishevelling his hair, and flung it at me. "Use it!" He walked over to the hearth, kneeled and struck a flame. It sprang up, uncurling itself with a crackle, as if in anger for being summoned. "Are you _asking_ to catch a chill, boy?"

Annoyed, I said, "I have only caught a cold twice before, both times when I was a child. And do not call me _boy_. Maglor."

He looked up at me quizzically. I felt oddly aware of his presence; he stood out against the idiosyncrasies of the room, like a figure in a painting. Firelight licked across his form, bringing to focus the brightness of his eyes; his bound hair fell like the sweep of a shadow over his shoulder. His taut body was festooned with scars, neither as copious nor as deep as Maedhros', but nonetheless grotesque. They did not repel me; I'd seen them before. Crouching down like that he looked like he could have been born from the flames. Raw. Too closely entwined with the elements. But he was _not_. "What is it?" he asked, standing up, puncturing my thoughts.

"I – " Suddenly I found myself at a loss for words. What was I supposed to say? My expression must have been troubled, for he pursed his lips and walked over, and placed a hand on my arm. He said nothing, but his gaze was understanding. I scowled childishly in return, then dropped my eyes to my feet. A sudden, nameless fear seized me, and I swayed, biting my lip. _You and me. Elrond and Maglor._ What of everything else?

Maglor gave a soft, solitary chuckle, making me start. Then he took the old tunic from my hands, folded it, and wiped the drying raindrops from my face and neck. Holding my hand he ran the now damp cloth over one arm, then the other, and finally placed the shirt on his cluttered table. He told me to remove my clothes and, while I did so, tossed me a set of his own from his cabinet, without looking at me (In my years here I had grown used to nudity – soldiers had no time for privacy or shame). When we were both dressed – his tunic was too large on me, I noticed, and the sleeves flapped at my knuckles; he was then a few inches taller than I – he walked over and pulled me into an firm embrace that surprised me in its tenderness. The rain roared against the windows, rattled and shook the glass, but could not reach us, though I caught a whiff of fresh wet earth, mingled with Maglor's muted, musky scent.

"Elrond," he said, curling his fingers against my back. The way he said it, I might have been his wayward but nonetheless beloved son. I swallowed a sudden lump in my throat, and dug my nails into his shoulder-blade. It must have pained him, but he did not hiss or grimace, and instead carried on serenely: "You are a fine, young man. I do not doubt you will come into greatness. You will have lands of your own, and marry and have children, and friends aplenty from across Ennor, and your heart will threaten to break with joy."

It was not at all what I needed – or wanted – to hear. I said somewhat hoarsely, "What about you?"

He was silent. Then he let go of me and held me at an arm's length, his face both sad and stern. "Elrond," he said, "what will everyone say if they see you with me, asking my opinion on everything, sparring with me, placing me above your noble father? They will label you a traitor and a rebel. Do not let my status fall on your head."

"Let them see!" I cried, with a vehemence that shocked even me. "I care not for status or privilege!"

"You say that now," returned Maglor evenly. "You will weep when you lose both." He let go of me and stepped away. Then he said brightly, plastering a smile on his face, "Tomorrow is your begetting day, and we will celebrate with a feast! Let us think of happier things, and also give our minds to the hunt the day after."

He briskly ruffled my hair, then ushered me out of his chamber. The door shut.

* * *

><p><strong>Note: Maglor is canonically married, as per the essay 'Of Dwarves and Men', HoME Volume XII. <strong>

**As to the amount of time Elrond and Elros spent in Amon Ereb, please refer to the note at the end of chapter ten. **


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

An hour before sunset, on my begetting day, I heard shouting coming from downstairs. I was in my dank, little chamber, trying to get some much-needed sleep before the undoubtedly tiring feast, and when the voices became loud enough to hear even with my down pillow covering my ears I flung off the covers and marched outside, thoroughly, thoroughly irritated. I had in my sixteenth summer shifted to the west wing, and shared a floor with Maedhros. Usually, his mere presence was enough to ensure complete, disciplined silence from even the rowdiest of elves. Perhaps he was not here? I knew he sometimes sat in the library to pore over accounts.

The argument seemed to be taking place in the stairwell. I strutted down indignantly, making sure to look more tired than I really was to make my displeasure evident, and ready to give a righteous speech on appropriate conduct. My words abruptly withered in my throat when I saw Maglor, of all people, screaming full in the colourless face of his brother. Some of his hair had come loose of its clip, and his usually immaculate tunic was wrinkled from his explosive gestures. His cheeks were flushed with anger, and the tendons stood out in his neck in an almost grotesque manner. He was entirely unlike the tender man who laughed with fond affection when my brother or I lost our temper.

"You can order your men and your favourite hounds, Maedhros, but you will _not_ order me, _not_ in this matter!" he shouted, and, for the first time I had known, his voice instead of inciting unbearable beauty trembled with a rage that could have crumbled stone and made rivers stand still. I don't know how Maedhros bore it. It must have squeezed his heart and weakened his will, loosened the very threads that wove body and spirit together.

Yet I should have known that Maedhros son of Fëanor was not one to be deterred by this alone. "How dare you," he returned in a hiss. His arms were held rigidly by his side, as if he were striving not to strike his brother.

"Do not talk to me about_ daring_ to do anything! It is right – "

"_And now you speak of what is right_?" Maedhros thundered, taking a threatening step forward, and I gasped and covered my mouth, because I thought from the savage look on his face that he would break every one of Maglor's bones. I'd heard the sound of crunching bone before, in Sirion, during hunting. It was disgusting. I was not ready to hear that sound come from Maglor's body. Luckily, it did not. "Was it right for you to abandon me, again and again, little brother? You did not protest our father's deeds at Losgar with me, you did not even properly attempt to assemble a search party for Angband, you left me to search alone for two children at Doriath, and _then you spout nonsense about what is right_?"

"You left to attack Morgoth on your own, like some witless boy," Maglor roared back, "and I had five brothers and an army to keep in check, so do not accuse me of leaving you to a fate I could not help! And do not even _try_ to – "

"_Shut up_! I will not let you make decisions that will end in more grief than is necessary! I am ordering you, as your older brother, as the head of the Fëanorian house, and as high commander of our host, _you will not do this_!"

"I will, Maedhros, and so help me, I will gladly face the pits of Hell for it!"

"Then you will be dragging them down with you!"

"_What are you so afraid of_?"

"Can you truly be such a _fucking idiot_, Maglor?"

I flinched and bit my lip hard. Not even in my dreams had I dared to use such language.

"You can mess with me all you like, but messing with yourself? I can barely recognise you! Are you trying to convince yourself that they are your thralls, to pick up and throw away at will? The Maglor I knew – "

"Is right here!"

"Was never such a coward!" Maedhros bellowed, lunging forward and clutching the front of his brother's tunic, nearly lifting him off the floor. The two men stared at each other, breathing hard. Maedhros spoke, and with a start I realised he knew I'd been standing there: "Get the hell out of here, Elrond. You did not hear this."

I didn't move. My feet seemed to stick to the ground, as if they had grown roots. Maedhros appeared not to care. He returned his attention to Maglor, whose face was now going from hued to bloodless. He suddenly collapsed to his knees – forcing the other man to release him – burying his face in his hands and shaking his head.

"Maedhros," he said in a voice drained of all energy. "Maitimo. _Nelyo_." He took a great, gasping breath and clutched his brother's sleeve. His shoulders shook. It was painful to even look at him, so broken, so pathetic. I had never seen him this way, and was strangely repelled by this transformation. I should not have been. What sort of person was I? And yet...

"Nelyo, Nelyo," he murmured. Each time he said it Maedhros cringed. Then, in a tight, choked voice: "I want to go_ home_." And Maedhros kneeled down, pried the other man's hands away from his face. He said gently, "This _is_ home. We have no other. I..." He sighed wearily, closing his eyes, grimacing. "I am so _tired_."

Maglor dropped his head against his brother's shoulder, clasped his dark copper hair with one hand, and let his eyes fall shut. "Do not leave me."

With a sigh, Maedhros shook his head, then waved me away. I stared and stared like a fool. Then, slowly, my legs feeling heavy as bags of sand, I retreated to the hallway, and ran to my chamber. Once there I stood still, my chest heaving. The sound of my breath seemed offensive to me. My body shook with...I don't know what. With a sudden cry I grabbed a cup of water from my desk and hurled it against the wall. There was a _bang_, and then shards of clay were dropping at my feet like little, proverbial pieces of hearts. Dazed, I set my sandal on one and crushed it.

Then I looked up and it was dark outside.

During the feast Maglor played his harp and sang, and there were silence and tears and wistful looks, as usual. After it was over and the people began once again to chatter, Maglor sat by my side at the High Table, pulled me close, and kissed my temple with dry lips.

* * *

><p>On the morning of the hunting trip, when the sky was daubed with pale gold in the East, our party stood silently in the courtyard with our swords at our hips and our bows slung across our torsos. The birds had begun to chatter, their faint song puncturing the otherwise still atmosphere. Maglor stood grimly at the head of the company, wearing a fitted tunic and a dark green cloak with a hood, and on his belt was a fine ivory bugle, tipped with silver. Elros had not wished to join us. He had responded to his invitation with, "Are you joking? I will not be able to move my little finger after this feast!" and had told us to carry on without him.<p>

I chewed my lip, unusually nervous, when he ordered for the gates to be opened, and clutched the mane of my horse. Despite the fact that my brother and I had begun hunting with the Fëanorians at the age of twenty, today I could not shake off an uneasy feeling. Sweat dotted my forehead despite the cool air. Taking a long breath, I counted to ten, then back to zero, calming myself.

The sound of the horses' hoofs pattered like slow rain when we trotted out of the fortress.

We rode into the now blazing horizon, the hounds taking the lead, and I could see the forest of Taur-Im-Duinath towards the south as a dark, thin stretch. It would take a fortnight by the time we got there and returned. Few Elves roamed its paths, for wild wolves and sometimes even Orcs were likely to be found as well, though I was told that even the latter feared its darkness. We could have gone the other way, to the river, and caught nets of fat, silver fish, but game was better in the forest. One could, of course, have pointed out that the river was by far a safer option, but the Noldor, as I knew well, seemed to thrive on near-blind courage that bordered on foolishness. They sucked it in like ordinary people sucked in air. I did not share their taste for it, and still don't – a trait that having three children hasn't helped.

For hours each day we rode, stopping every now and again to eat or set up camp. Maglor was silent and brooding, and spoke curtly only when he needed to give orders. I would catch him looking at me with an odd, furtive expression sometimes, though I did not want to ask him about it and potentially anger him. There was little worse, I thought, than having him grow wrathful towards me. The few times he had, the experience was more than unpleasant. He always apologised later with a blush and a bottle of good wine to share, and we always returned to our easy talks afterwards, but until then I would lose both my appetite and my focus on my studies, and would huddle in bed, rolled in the furs, as if I were ill.

By the time we approached the forest, my clothes were torn and stained with dirt, and my hair, breaking. I probably smelled hideous, because we all did; at first I could scarcely abide standing next to the others, but soon my nose grew used to the stench and we could sit together for our evening meals without rudely corrugating our brows.

At the break of day we rode into the dense trees, our arrows and hunting swords ready. It was a deep, dark wood, with ample foliage and rank, decaying vegetation on the ground. I breathed in its heavy, musty smell, not entirely unpleasant to me, because of its familiarity. The air felt cool on my bare forearms, and I felt a pleasant shiver run through me.

The hunt, for its part, went well. We had caught six roebucks, three boars, and some foxes, and would catch smaller game on the way back. I remained mostly unharmed, with only a few scratches, though a few of our party had broken limbs and deep cuts, though, as soldiers, it was neither their nature nor their obligation to complain. I bandaged their wounds and administered medicine as best as I could, along with a couple of other healers, and with difficulty suppressed the exhilarating thrill of being able to put my studies to practice. In later years it would become both more satisfying and more tedious; a fledgling, I had not yet tasted the bitter blood of battle. But of that, another time.

We prepared to leave in the small hours of a mild morning, gathering together just at the border of the forest. I was preparing to mount my snorting, grey mare when a sharp sound like a whip cut the air and someone screamed shrilly. I whirled round, agape and yet in a stupor, as the soldiers around me drew their weapons. An ellon had been shot in the thigh and lay writhing on the ground like a wounded caterpillar; we were under attack.

As I drew my own sword, a company of Orcs leaped from the trees, howling battle cries in their guttural, sharp voices, and brandishing curved blades and iron maces that blazed in the light of the sun. One of them thrust a scimitar at me; snapping to my senses, I parried it with my own blade, and began to fight in earnest. The noise about me was a buzz in my ears as I bent all my attention on killing. I had managed to wound my enemy, delivering a grave blow to his waist, but swiftly another Orc joined in against me. I knew I could not fend off two. Nevertheless, I redoubled my efforts, but received a deep cut in my right shoulder. The pain was hot and stinging, like fire and acid melded together. Crying out, I dropped my sword, half from deep horror at assuming the blade might have been poisoned, and clutched the wound with my hand.

I dropped to my knees as both of them raised their blades. In my stupor I thought desperately, _I can't decide between sending a prayer to the Valar or remembering my brother! _

I could only watch, dazed, as I saw one of the Orcs' head roll off with an abundant spurt of dark blood and land on the ground with a grotesque _thunk_. Maglor. The other Orc swung his scimitar at him savagely, but Maglor was too fast for him: with dizzying speed that I found hard to follow, he fluidly disarmed his opponent and stuck his sword through the other's chest. It was all over in a few heartbeats.

When Maglor turned his attention to me, breathing heavily, his voice raspy, I saw that his left arm had been broken, and stuck out at an odd, unsightly angle. He had a gash on his forehead and another across his chest, and his concerned eyes were beginning to droop, as if he had been administered a dose of potent drugs. There was no way he could have stood another second with those wounds. _Poison then_, I thought blearily, my head spinning. It shouldn't have worked this fast; Morgoth must have had some very competent chemists. The toxins were probably polluting my own veins.

Abruptly, Maglor's head snapped up, and I a heard a low, feral growl directly behind me. I never understood how frightening an attack from behind could be until then. Whatever good blood that was left in me grew cold, and I seemed to have forgotten how to move – or was that the toxin? _Turn, fool, turn! _I thought furiously to myself. Maglor had already charged ahead clumsily and was fighting his – our – enemy, with desperate strength, his face corrugated in pain and in forced focus.

With a last, urgent burst of energy, I turned and violently swung my sword, hacking the Orc's legs. I saw flesh part and heard bone split, and a squeal pierced the air. The Orc dropped, dead, to the red earth. Maglor must have delivered the killing blow. I had never hated anything more in my life.

A second, obscene _fwump_ sounded, and I twisted round to see Maglor lying before me on his front, eyes half-lidded, lips bloody and parted, crimson-streaked sword still in his gloved fist. He was unconscious, or dead. I made a distressed sound and reached awkwardly to him, my limbs confused and uncoordinated because of the poison, and grabbed his cloak with stiff fingers. "Ma'lor," I slurred. My vision was blurring. The chaotic sounds around me were a dull roar in my ears. After some hazy scrambling I managed to get his head on my lap and to gracelessly stroke his temple. I wanted to check his pulse, feel the quiver of life, but it grew dark suddenly, as if someone had tied a heavy velvet cloth over my eyes.

* * *

><p><strong>Note:<strong>

I am aware that Taur-im-Duinath was greatly feared by both Orcs and Elves, but I have deliberately breached this canon.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

The first thing I realised, when I woke in the infirmary, was that some of the soldiers from our company were being treated and served herbal tea. Bright light poured through the windows across the sheets atop me. Somewhere from outside, blackbirds chirped faintly. Aside from that, the chamber was serenely silent, the only sounds being the clink of chinaware and the shuffling of cloth. Sharp yet soothing smells of basil and clove caught my nostrils by surprise, put some energy into my blood by reminding me that I was hungry. My stomach twisted indignantly. I tried to get up and immediately regretted it: my wound had been cleaned and treated, but there was throbbing pain in my right arm, and I groaned and squeezed my eyelids shut.

"I am glad to see you awake, Master Elrond," came a womanly, mocking voice. I didn't have to open my eyes to know it was Gaereth, the healer who had treated my brother's ankle years before. She had been so kind as to scrupulously hammer into my head the anatomy of the elvish body – a study that was intensified by her threat to fling me out the window if I did not work hard enough to suit her taste.

She continued in her wry fashion, "There was some potent poison on those Orc-blades. You gave me a hard time."

"'m sorry," I slurred absently, draping the back of my hand over my eyes, though I wasn't sorry at all. Why was the sun so _bright_? I groaned again, and Gaereth said playfully, "Oh, now, now! I have heard you complain too many times over the years."

"You're a horrible ol' woman."

"Clearly, you are feeling well enough. Try to sit up. Do not put pressure on your right arm."

I sat up gingerly, struggling, and sighed in gratitude when Gaereth adjusted the pillow behind my back, noticing vaguely that I was naked to the waist. The next moment she handed me a glass of water, which I sipped twice before giving it back to her, nauseous. _Elbereth b__less the horrible old woman_, I thought blearily, massaging my temples. A headache pounded behind my eyes, and I mentally cursed, in vividly colourful language, Morgoth and all his wretched, damned Orcs. At that moment some semblance of awareness returned to my mind, and I sat straighter and asked, concerned, "How is Ma – Lord Maglor?"

Gaereth looked at me with an odd expression. "He is still unconscious – his wounds were deeper than yours, and the poison had spread more acutely – though I am cautiously optimistic that he will be fine. _I_ am his physician, after all." She gestured with her chin towards the end of the room, where Maglor lay, pale but, mercifully, breathing, on a bed. His arms lay neatly on the covers, as if they had been positioned by someone, and his lips were closed firmly. He almost gave the impression that he was in the midst of a deep sleep.

I must have looked worried, for Gaereth said, "You must trust me, Master Elrond. I am doing a finer job of healing all these soldiers than any other physician here could – including you. And our staff have their hands full."

Abashed, I nodded, biting my lip.

With the healers' careful ministrations I recovered more swiftly than I had imagined, and was walking about quite steadily within a few days, though my arm was bound in a sling and I had to apply salve on it every few hours. Maglor remained unconscious, but a little more colour returned to his cheeks with each passing day. One afternoon as I entered the infirmary to see how a few of the others were doing, I saw Maedhros sitting by his brother's bed, arms crossed over his chest, the sunlight through the window painting two lines across his sharp-featured face. Everything about him, I thought, was neat and severe, from his looks to his manner to the way he dressed.

In a moment he said, startling me, "Come here, Elrond. I know you want to."

Shyly, I crept forward. I'd always wondered how he knew who was in the room with him without even bothering to look up. Perhaps he patiently memorised the distinctive sounds of people's footfalls. He seemed the sort who would do that. I never asked him about it; he likely wouldn't have answered, anyway.

Maedhros kept his eyes fixed on his brother's face. His own visage held an odd, thoughtful expression. "Did you know," he said suddenly, leaning forward to brush Maglor's cheekbone with the back of his hand, "I hurt him once. Deliberately."

Both surprised and intrigued at this unexpected information, I kept silent, not wishing to disturb his speech. He went on, "It had not been long since I had been rescued from Angband." My eyes widened, for I had never before heard him speak of that place, though I knew his story. "Maglor did not save me himself. I do not know who was more hurt by that: him or me." His voice was impassive, but beneath his lashes his eyes were gleaming with grief. I admit that made me uncomfortable; I was not used to thinking of Maedhros as vulnerable. He sat back in his chair and raised his gaze to the ceiling. "I broke his ribs in Mithrim*, when I was nearly recovered. I was so angry with him, with everything. You have no idea – "

He broke off abruptly, like a sprinting man skidding to a halt. He gave a short, irritable sigh, and I shuffled my feet awkwardly. I was appalled, and intrigued, and felt for him. But what was I supposed to say? After mumbling something quite incoherent, I scrambled out of the infirmary, my face burning. I don't know why I always felt uncomfortable when I turned my back to him, as if he was going to fling his boot at my head when I did. He never would, I knew, but nonetheless my uneasiness around him never wore off.

Maglor did heal eventually, and woke up one warm evening when I was sitting at the edge of his bed and reading. He opened his eyes – which were so large and dark they reflected the beams of the ceiling, clear but distorted on the curve of his cornea – and made a strange, rasping sound, more like a plea than a word. My book slipped from my hands and landed on the covers. Hastily, I lifted his head and placed a glass of water at his chapped lips. He swallowed, and a few streaks of liquid dribbled down his chin, and he coughed painfully, the ghastly sound echoing in the large chamber. When the fit subsided he looked at me properly and, after a moment, raised his good hand to my shoulder in a feeble clasp. _I am happy you are well_, his eyes seemed to say. I said nothing, but bent down and kissed his feverish brow, and his fingers shifted to the back of my head, sweeping gently across my scalp.

* * *

><p>A fortnight after my shoulder was strong enough for me to arch a bow again, my brother and I were called into Maedhros' chamber. The evening was dark, and there was no moon, and though two candelabras rested on the study table, there was scarcely enough light to read even the index of a book in. I sneezed explosively, and quickly wiped my nose in embarrassment; the smell of burning animal fat was thick. Elros peered blearily around the room and suppressed a yawn, running his fingers through his hair. Currently it resembled a thicket of brambles, and I was sorely temped to quickly finger-comb it so he could look more like a descendant of kings and less like a peasant-boy.<p>

Maedhros reclined in a chair, long legs crossed and arms folded, wearing his customary, wooden countenance. Maglor stood behind him, shuffling his feet; his eyes bore a strange, wary expression. One could have pricked the tense, uncomfortable air in the room with a pin. I steeled myself for ill news.

The elder brother drew his index finger over his upper lip – an uncharacteristic sign of nerves – and said curtly, "Take a seat," gesturing towards two empty chairs by the unlit hearth. Elros and I obeyed, sitting down simultaneously with our hands folded in our laps, as was appropriate. Maedhros said coolly, his darting eyes betraying his uneasiness, "You realise these are difficult times." He paused, searched our faces. I thought he meant the shortage of food and of staff, and assumed my brother did, too. Expecting him to give us orders to help more around the fortress and to go on additional hunting trips, I nodded responsibly.

"Our numbers are greatly reduced, and we can be attacked at any time by Morgoth and his servants. That is why," he said, hardening his gaze, "we are sending you to Lord Círdan and the High King Gil-Galad, to the Isle of Balar."

I blinked, confused. For a moment I thought he merely wished to frighten us. This was some kind of joke; in a moment he would chuckle darkly and berate us for naivety.

When no words passed his lips I leapt from my seat, nearly knocking it over in my haste. "You cannot be serious," I cried.

"We can, Elrond, and we are," he replied. "You will leave in two months."

Rage, mingled with shock, bubbled in my chest. Two months? We had lived at Amon Ereb for over twenty years, and now were being sent away, like a pair of donkeys no longer useful to their masters?

"This is too sudden," put in Elros, who had also gotten up. "Something must have happened for you to do this, out of the blue. Is it about Elrond getting hurt? Things like that happen, and they will happen even if we are with Lord Círdan. So long as Morgoth remains on this earth, there will be no peace."

"You are missing the point," said Maglor, who up till then had kept silent. "You are living with – and according to foreign sources, captured by – two Fëanorians, which translates to two kinslayers. If misfortune befalls you while you are here, it will be naturally assumed that we deliberately harmed you."

"And," said Maedhros, "if that happens, it would likely mean the death of Maglor and of me, and potentially of all the folk here at the fortress – Lord Círdan would not forgive us. If, however, you are injured or worse at Balar – and we can only hope that nothing of the sort happens – there will be no political conflicts or potential skirmishes."

"Is that the only reason?" I said, my voice shaking.

"No," said Maedhros. "The Oath has slept for too long. Maglor and I will retrieve the remaining Silmarils soon." He cast his brother a pointed glance. "We do not want you to get caught in the middle of that. Furthermore," he said, leaning back a little in his seat, "you have stayed here long enough. It is time you went to your true guardians."

"You _are_ our guardians!" cried Elros indignantly.

Maedhros sighed softly. "No, Elros," he said, "we are the murderers of your kin and are your captors. I hope you understand this. Did you think that sparing you, only to bring you here, was an act of sympathy? You are more intelligent than that."

Maglor looked away, his face wan. And suddenly I was back in the stairwell, several fortnights ago, and Maedhros was shouting,_ I will not let you make decisions that will end in more grief than is necessary!_

"You," I said slowly, addressing Maglor, not caring for the insolence in my tone. "Sending us away was your idea, was it not?"

For a moment he was silent, and then said, his voice calm, "Yes."

"You bastard," I muttered, earning shocked looks. Then, more loudly: "You damned bastard, Maglor!"

"Elrond!" I heard Maedhros say sharply. I took a deep, shuddering breath, and stormed out of the room, furious. Once in my chamber I barred the door and plumped on the bed, head in hands. I did not reply to the loud knocks or to my brother calling my name. The fortress could have crumbled to bits around me, and I would not have cared.

* * *

><p>The night before our scheduled departure I sat on my chair and stared at my knapsack and my satchel. My head spun lazily with nausea; I had eaten little that day, and had talked less. If I threw up there would be nothing but watery bile that would stink up the room. I'd no mind to clean up if I really was ill, and so forced the sickness down.<p>

I raised my eyes to the window. The moon was round and bright, spilling its light onto the undulating plains below, and milky beams played on the slate floor, now and again shadowed by sailing clouds. I could taste the freshness of the cool air on my tongue. The idiosyncrasies of the room stood out: a couple of sketches I had made, one of Elros, and another of some attendant whose name I have forgotten; the light linen curtains, patterned delicately with begonias; my rosewood table with its stacks of books, none of which I would be taking with me, for they belonged to the fortress' library. Soon, these things that I had come to think of as generic would become memories, and grow dimmer with time, till they would fade into phantoms of an old past.

Somewhere, a door was slammed, and its echo rippled dimly through the hallways. My ears, oddly sharp at the moment, perceived bats chattering in their quick, high-pitched voices. I imagined them dangling upside down from arbitrary arches in the fortress, their furry faces twitching, and childishly envied the fact that no-one could tell them to leave.

I stood up, took a weather-beaten cloak that I had tied to a bedpost, and wrapped it about my shoulders.

Maglor's chamber was, as usual, unlocked. I went in and, heedless of manners, stood expectantly by his bed. Though he lay amid the tumbled sheets, I knew he, too, was awake. Without a word he rose and, avoiding my eyes, slipped on some clothes and a pair of sandals, and sloppily tied his uncombed hair into a knot. I watched the folds of light cloth drape over his skin, traced the familiar, sharp contours of his body with my eyes, as if memorising a remnant of home. He lit a taper, and in the moment the flame flared to illuminate his thin face in a bright glow, I beheld the hated kinslayer I had seen as a child in Sirion. Then the light steadied and he was but Maglor again, holding aloft a candle and keeping the flame alive with the curve of his callused, artist's palm.

In an unconscious, frenzied moment, I went up to him and gripped his upper arms with more strength than I intended. I wanted to root him to the spot and keep him to myself, and I also wanted to break his bones in revenge. It would not have been wrong, I thought, or unreasonable. And he'd let me, I knew. He'd probably think dying at my hands would make a good story, and ask me to put it in a song.

All I managed to say, through gritted teeth, was, "Great _Eru_, Maglor." Blasphemy, to utter the name of the One so casually, and for so base a reason.

He returned my gaze calmly. "Let me go?"

We went up to a terrace. I sat on the broad parapet, Maglor beside me, and together we gazed into the western horizon, which was a deep blue, as yet untouched by the first rays of the rising sun. The stars were strewn like salt against the sky. How Elbereth must have laboured to place them all so lovingly, one by one, in the heavens, heedless of whichever soul, pure or corrupt, looked upon them to draw hope or hatred as he pleased.

At length Maglor turned to me; his skin looked nearly translucent in the moonlight, as if he would be dispelled if I so much as touched his face. "You know why we took you in, do you not?" he asked suddenly. Without waiting for my reply he continued, his voice cool, impassive, as if he was reciting lines from a half-forgotten, rather insipid play: "You must have realised, Elrond, that I brought you here not for you, but for me. I cared less for you and your brother, and more for the loneliness of my own shrivelled heart."

I bit my lip hard. I knew this, and yet I had always forced the thought to the back of my mind the same way one waves away tiresome insects in the hot season. It made me feel unwanted and passive, like a pair of old, worn boots that are passed from person to person, simply because no one wants to keep them.

A warm hand rubbed my shoulder gently, and I raised my eyes, furiously blinking away tears. There was the ghost of a smile on Maglor's lips, a dim impression of joy. "And now," he said, "I am sending you away – not for me, but for you. I know you will be happier and safer with Gil-Galad and his host, though you may not believe this. I fear that if I keep you longer, I will not be able to part with you."

He cupped my cheek with one hand, and ran his fingers through my hair with the other. "Perhaps there is such a thing as loving too much, at the wrong time, under the wrong circumstances."

A hot tear slid down my cheek, and Maglor wiped it away with the callused pad of his thumb. As I pressed my quivering lips together, struggling to remain stoic, he said, "Oh, but Elrond, I am afraid I am still very selfish, and I imagine that, in a different world, we might have been father and son, and would never have been parted."

I caught his wrists and said in a raw, hoarse voice, "Then do not make me go. The world you speak of can be created – no, it already exists. _Please._"

Maglor, looking both shocked and upset, searched my face, and then pulled me into an embrace. He smelled like sandalwood and clean bedsheets and steel. "Elrond," he whispered gently, rubbing small circles on my back with his hands. I nestled against him, breathing unsteadily. His warmth enveloped me, cocooned me like a familiar, comforting blanket. I suddenly pulled back, abashed; grown men were not meant to act this way.

Maglor arched an eyebrow, sighed, and said, "You are not quite that old, Elrond."

I opened my mouth, and before I could stop myself, muttered, "When I first came here, there was nothing more I wanted than to kill you."

He looked at me patiently; he already knew this.

"And now that I _can_," I went on, "I do not wish to."

"Even though I deserve it?" His voice was darkly amused. How quickly the tone of this conversation had changed!

"Yes. Though, I could push you off this parapet right now, if you like."

"Cheeky," said Maglor, smirking suddenly. "Very, very cheeky you are, son of Elwing."

"Not quite as much as you," I returned dryly, "son of Fëanor."

He burst into chuckles, and I joined him, and we put our arms around each other companionably. Then we lapsed into silence. Lazily, I played with a strand of his soft hair, twirling it about my finger, watching it spring into two curls when I let it go. He didn't protest, but adjusted my cloak so that it fell more neatly over my shoulders. When the sun finally rose, the sky was slashed with fire, and birds were circling the air. The great plains stretched before us, glorious in their expanse, bright green and fertile, and the wind carried with it a scent of fresh grass and wildflowers. I could have pretended all was well with the world.

"We should get up," said Maglor quietly. Neither of us moved. I could hear people rushing about, making preparations for the morning. The horses were whinnying and the hounds growing restless.

He pressed, "Come," forcing himself to get up. He held out a hand, but, stubbornly, I stood up on my own, and we both headed to our own chambers to get dressed for an early breakfast, though I had little appetite for food.

We broke our fast on fried bread, boiled eggs, and fruit. In the end it did me some good. I felt less queasy, but no less uncomfortable. Elros was unusually quiet, playing with his food like a child, and now and again a little, earnest frown would appear on his brow. His black hair was washed and combed, and his face cleaned, but he looked tired. He barely had a few mouthfuls of food on his own, and Maglor had to force him to take some. Maedhros ate even less, and sat alone at a trestle table with a cup of steaming, black tea in his hand, his expression brooding. He looked like he was forcing himself to drink, abruptly bringing the mug to his lips at intervals and then subtly wrinkling his nose as though he found the taste bitter.

By the time we went outside, the horses were saddled and the supplies packed. A small group of ellyn would be accompanying us, and a messenger had already been sent ahead to inform Lord Círdan of our arrival. Some people we had befriended had come to see us off, among them Agorael, a handful of healers, and a scattering of guards. Some of them punctuated the air with sobs.

As I mounted my horse in the courtyard, my head felt strangely light, as if stuffed with cotton, but Elros seemed to have recovered from his sorrow. His posture was straight, and his cloak stirred in the morning wind. He had enough dignity to nod his head and to murmur his own good-byes. I realised, as if for the first time, that he looked kingly, especially now with his baldric and his polished, leather boots. I dropped my head and felt heat rise to my cheeks in shame. _Just a graceless brat, I am..._

Maglor grasped the reins of my horse, making me look up. "Once again, farewell." He paused, gave a smile. "Little Half-elf," he finished. I felt some strength return to me at his warm tone, and nodded at him. Taking his hand, I pressed it to my lips, and fumbled for the right words to say. I'll never forget the look in his eyes. I've tried to capture it on the harp or parchment, but failed every time; there is a bolted coffer full of attempted portraits in my study.

At length I found my voice, and said, "Farewell, and though wisdom warns me against it, I love you still, son of Fëanor." Such words were embarrassing to say in front of a crowd; they were not meant to be shared with anyone but Maglor. Yet I could think not think of a more appropriate time to speak them.

His gaze flicked across my face, and he mouthed a silent thank you.

Maedhros stepped forward as the company prepared to leave. "Take care, both of you. Study well, train hard and...stay happy."

"We will," called Elros. Both Maedhros and Maglor stepped back as the gates opened with a gargantuan groan. My chest seemed heavy as lead as we rode out in a slow march, and my heart pounded against my ribcage. I glanced at the Fëanorians over my shoulder, and felt as if I was leaving my childhood behind. Maedhros appeared impassive (I would not have liked it any other way), and Maglor was still smiling bravely, his lips now and again twitching with the brittleness of his facade.

The sound of the horses' hoofs rumbled dully in my ears, and I frowned as the denizens of Amon Ereb shrunk in size, as if someone had stuck a screw in their skin and was turning it round and round, tightening their flesh until they began to resemble children's figurines.

I lifted my gaze to the flush of the new sky, and left them behind in the dust.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong>

Please note that Elrond and Elros were taken captive in F. A. 538, that the War of Wrath began in F. A. 545, and that Maedhros perished in F. A. 587. It is uncertain as to when the Fëanorians let Elrond and Elros go, but do not take the date in this story as accurate. The War would have begun, and I do not think Maedhros and Maglor would have had either the time or the resources to take care of the Peredhil. More realistically, the Fëanorians would have relinquished the twins after around six years or less – not twenty.

You can find the timelines on LOTRproject and SWG, and on several other websites if you Google 'Silmarillion timeline'.

*This episode is fleshed out in my story, 'The Hammer Does Not Fall'.


	11. Epilogue

Epilogue

Lord Círdan was kind to me, and I came to think of King Ereinion as an elder brother. He would make good time for me, and thanks to him I grew as a leader of my own people. His passing saddened me greatly, and for a brief while the management of Imladris fell into the hands of Celebrían and of Erestor.

It was Elros' death, however, that was a sore blow to me. I have yet to decide which was more painful: waiting for him to die or seeing his pale skin grow cold and grey. I stayed with him during his precious last few months in Middle-Earth; he remained strong like the monarch he was, but I could see the hunch in his posture, the unsteadiness of his veined hands. His eyes – his eyes were still as bright as ever, though. Never had I thought that I would see tender wrinkles at their corners.

When he first told me his decision, we were still in our early youth, and I thought he was not serious. I'd been curled at my window, a volume of Rúmil's poetry in my hands, when he strode right in my chamber and, in an abrupt, staccato voice, announced that he wished to join the Edain. At first I did not even raise my eyes from my book; so sure was I of Elros' loyalty to me. He was joking, trying to get me to fall off the sill, likely. It was only when the silence in the room grew tense that I looked at him; his eyes were glassy, and his lips quivering.

I had leapt up and flung my arms about his neck, nearly as frantic as I had been when we were first taken captive by the Fëanorians, and begged him to change his mind. You're jesting, aren't you? Why are you leaving me? You are my brother, my dearest friend. If you go, what will be left for me in this world? I will die, yes, I will die, and then you will regret your decision!

For several fortnights I did everything I could to convince him to stay remain our Elven kindred. I hounded him about the fort in Balar, held long talks with him by the sea, even turned up in his chamber in the small hours of the morning, in hopes of catching him off-guard and having him mumble, in a moment of carelessness, that he would stay.

He was granted his wish, but I told him I felt more connected with my Elvish blood. Elros peered at me closely. "That is not the only reason." It wasn't a question. When I turned my face away he said, "You cannot wait for them. We will not meet again." I remained silent and kept my hopes in my heart, which ached as though it would implode.

When Maedhros passed away, I allowed myself only a black tunic for mourning; no one save my brother understood. And when I heard what happened to Maglor, I searched for him myself, spending hours and sometimes days trudging along the beach. I never found him. Eventually his name all but disappeared from the records in Middle-earth. A book or two in my library, however, mentioned him; at times I'd sit with them alone in my study and lightly run my index finger across the faded letters of his name. Always, I thought with sadness, was he coupled with the words kinslayer, traitor, thief, and never husband, father, or brother. I could not blame the masters of lore; they'd have been harshly criticised, even booted out of their work, for recognising human qualities in a murderer – for acknowledging that there is hope even for a person labelled 'kinslayer'.

_What sort of world do I live in?_ I would think with despair at times such as those. Cruelty, coldness, and lack of mercy seemed to rule the day. In Mithrandir and Círdan alone did I find true hope and wisdom. _And in my family_, I added silently, resolutely. _And in my family. _

I ruled Imladris responsibly till I could bear my loneliness in Middle-earth no more and arranged to sail.

My sons' decisions surprised me. Like their sister, they wished not to depart, and stayed behind in the realm in which they were born. I let them, of course – who am I to withhold their happiness? But I sailed to the West with Mithrandir and Galadriel and several others who wished to behold the Blessed Land, whether once more or for the first time.

Valinor was a balm that soothed my aches. I was joyfully reunited with Celebrían, and it heightened my humour to see folk who never seemed to be truly unhappy. The fields were green and stretched as far as the eye could see, the jagged teeth of the mountains were frosted with snow, and the rivers babbled merrily. Tirion was a feast for the eyes and a convenient place to live. Tall towers of white marble rose like fingers from the hill of Túna, tipped with gold brighter than Vanyarin hair, and one could hear the calming sounds of great bells every half hour. Of course, there was also the noise and the chaos and the occasional coarse city-person, but oddly, I liked the bustle; it reminded me somewhat of Amon Ereb.

For the first few fortnights I was obliged to mingle with people of high rank or calibre. It was all rather tiresome, but I plastered a smile on my face anyway. Father and I met with formal bows and strained conversation. I barely knew him. Even so, we made it a point to meet every month or so; there was much we needed to speak about. When I met my mother, neither of us knew quite what to say. We sat beneath the awning of a music shop and could barely meet each other's eyes. At length I told her she had nothing to forgive; she had done what she felt was right. How could I berate her for that? Her decision stung me, but I understood it better than I had in my youth. But here I must curb myself, else I will not stop talking; how my parents and I were reconciled is a tale for another day.

Now, I stand in the balcony of what was once Prince Fëanor's house, leaning against the balustrade. I cannot see the Belegaer, which is obstructed by hills and by buildings, but I can feel the cool sea-breeze against my face, and smell the heavy scent of the large, damask roses that straggle the weathered masonry.

"Do you think he will come back?"

I turn to look at Nerdanel, who sits on a rocking-chair with a half-finished tunic on her lap; her fingers have stopped their restless knitting. Her hair is not as red as Maedhros', and her face is rounder and paler, with a dusting of freckles across her nose. She has lost her athletic build, I am told, but she is still strong; none can call her flimsy. She watches me with an earnest, hopeful expression.

I take a long while to answer her. At length, I turn back towards the Calacirya and say softly, "Yes."

_Finis._


End file.
